


Drizzle

by sayanara



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Eremika - Freeform, F/M, Poor!Eren, Rich!Mikasa, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4169670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayanara/pseuds/sayanara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young couple have been madly in love for years—but here’s the problem: she’s rich, he’s penniless, and her family’s apathy towards him has split them apart. But after a mutual friend invites them both to his wedding, they get a second chance at making things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I became somewhat enamored with the idea of Mikasa with curled hair and a livelier personality, and then this story came about. I keep wondering what she'd be like if her parents had never been murdered. Maybe her curiosity for life and interest in things would seep out in the form of enthusiasm—although I do think she's just naturally inclined to being quiet and reserved by nature. Anyways, I kinda played around a bit with that, and took the liberty of painting her colors outside of the guidelines just to see where it would take me and this is what I got. There's a very endearing aspect to her strength and fragility, and I like fleshing her out because no time that I've ever written her has she been entirely the same.
> 
> This is certainly an AU, but I wouldn't say it's "modern". I wanted it to be either in the 50′s or 60′s, but I couldn't decide so I'll just let you guys choose for yourselves. Make it whatever time period you want, be it contemporary or whatever. Enjoy!

She’s here.

She’s actually here.

The wind’s blowing her hair all directions, throwing it over her face, her eyes, ruffling her blouse and skirt, which she holds down with a shy paw, a tentative smile, a coy tenderness that radiates from her eyes. The baggage in her hand looks heavy, her heeled feet wobble slightly as she walks. She teeters a bit but then stands, straight, poised, elegant as usual.

She’s here.

She’s actually here.

“Hey, Armin.”

Her voice seeps into his ears, foreign, familiar. Slithering like snakes on his skin, trailing down his back and chest and arms and covering him everywhere, everywhere. Everywhere.

It hurts.

“Mikasa! How was the trip?” Armin envelopes her in his arms, squeezing tightly, and the girl gives a small noise of surprise, patting him on the back, chuckling breathily into his unruly mane of flaxen hair.

“It was fine,” she says as they pull apart. “I didn’t get sea sick this time.”

“Ah, that’s great!”

“I guess,” and she’s tucking a raven tendril behind her ear, passing the tip of her tongue over the smooth redness of her lips, wobbling slightly as she takes a step back and looks at both of them.

And, to Eren, time seems to go eerily still.

The seagulls crow and scream over the dock, flying about as the wind blows and blows and blows; an endless replay of life around him and yet all he sees is how:

Her skirt ruffles some more.

Her blouse presses to her chest.

Her hair falls over her eyes and face and—

“Eren.”

Dark, unlit eyes are on him. Black. Heavy. As wispy and calm as he remembers.

And they hurt. They hurt.

“Hi.” He can’t think of what else to say after that.

Neither can she.

They stand in silence, gazing at each other, at the ocean, at the bags she carries in her hand, at the flock of people around and at the ship that blows its massive horn, its great boom resonating through the vibrant blue of the cloud-less sky above them.

The seagull’s cacophony is complemented by Armin’s sudden squawk, “Ohh, man! It’s so  _nice_  out today!”

“It is.” Mikasa’s smiling, but there’s a tinge of sadness in her expression, some degree of fear present in her eyes. “I’d forgotten how windy it is here.”

“Ah, yeah. Always.” Armin reaches out his hands, prompting for her to hand over her belongings. “I’ll take those, if you want!”

“Oh.” She seems to think, to debate his capability to handle such luggage, but his beaming certainty elicits her surrender. “Thank you.”

“No prob! Eren’s driving us to your parents’ house. We’ll discuss everything about the wedding once we— Oof!” Her bags land in his hands and he grunts as their weight pull him down with such force he ends up wilting forward like a rag doll. Her belongings meet the ground with a solid thud and an exasperated groan from Armin. “Jesus, Mikasa. What’d you bring with you, bricks?”

She laughs, smoothing down her skirt and hair and blouse and everything Eren’s struggling not to look at. “No. Just books.”

“Of course,” Armin groans, puffing his cheeks out like a blowfish. “Of course.”

“Here, buddy.” Eren reaches over and takes the load from him, fighting back a smile. “I’ll take ‘em.”

“No, no, I can handle it,” but his blue eyes nearly pop out of his face with gratitude once he relieves him of the burden. Eren tries not to grin at the way his best friend huffs and shrugs at his uneven breathing. His goal is not to show any emotion today. Remain ignorant, he tells himself. Go numb. Go stupid. Pretend she’s not even here.

But he still catches the way Mikasa tenses up immediately, how her eyes linger on his face, glued on him and watching her belongings be carried off as he waltzes down the dock and over to the parking lot. He listens in on her quiet footsteps behind him, wallowing in every tap, tap, tap, tap of her heels. She’s following with Armin by her side, who’s busy rambling on about this and that and asking her questions—which she answers, concise as always.

“How’s college?”

“Great.”

“Any boyfriends?”

“Nothing special.”

“A-ha, your mom’s gonna bicker you about that.”

“I know.” A beat. “I guess I’ll just have to lie to her, won’t I?”

Armin cackles loudly at that, but Mikasa’s humorless drone promptly follows. “I’m serious. You know how she gets.”

Oh, yes, Eren thinks. Yes, I know  _exactly_  how she gets.

They reach Armin’s chevy convertible soon enough and then Eren stuffs her baggage in the back, wondering why he even agreed to do this in the first place. He knows that seeing Mikasa again is a self-induced death sentence, but Armin’s his best friend, and he’s getting _married_ , and the gigantic smile on his face when he’d pleaded “please? Pretty please? I’ll let you borrow my chevy for three weeks!” had pushed him into a corner of retaliation. How could he say no? How could he bring himself to say,  _just tell one of your house slaves to do it_ or  _why can’t her own parents pick her up?_  or  _she said she never wanted to see me again, Armin. She said she never wanted to see my fucking face_. The answer to his own question is quite simple: Eren doesn’t have the heart to disappoint his dearest friend. (He also doesn’t have the heart to turn down three week’s worth of owning a convertible chevy camaro either.)  

He holds his breath because her bags smell just like her. Just like the past. Just like everything he doesn’t want to be thinking about right now.

“And how have you been, Eren?”

A second. Two. It takes him three before he realizes she’s talking to him.

Sighing, he closes his eyes.

Straightens.

Turns around.

Her eyes are on him. He hopes for the strength to meet them.

“I’ve been good,” he musters, trying to sound sincere, not sure if he’s actually accomplished anything.

Mikasa stands stiffly for a moment, nodding her head, running her fingers through her wind-tousled hair only to have it be tousled some more anyway.

“That’s good,” she breathes rather shakily, hands hoisted on her hips. She smiles at him. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Eren thinks he feels a small piece of himself crack.

“Yup.”

But only a small piece.

He whips right back around to pull the driver’s side door open, gesturing for her to enter, saying nothing more. She complies, walking past him, bending her long legs to work herself onto the backseat and he darts his eyes away, holding his breath again, looking at some irrelevant point in space but still catching the way her skirt rides up her left thigh when she sits down by the corner of his eye.

“I’m so excited!” Armin shrieks, making his way around to sit on the passenger’s seat. He’s downright throbbing with joy as Eren takes his place beside him, passing him a pair of maroon-tinted shades, flipping his own pair over his eyes and turning around to grin extravagantly at Mikasa. “You excited?” he asks her.

Eren doesn’t have to turn around to see that she nods.

“I’m so glad you’re getting married,” she tells their friend, shifting around a bit until she’s comfortable between the two of them. She grips the side of Eren’s seat to lean forward, and he’s hyper-actively aware of her hand, of its precise movements, of how her fingers nearly brush the back of his neck. He tries not to pay her any mind, not to give in to the urge of swatting her hand away. “Especially to my best friend,” she finishes saying, and Eren catches the smile on her lips by the peppy curve up at the end of the word 'friend’.

“I know. Annie’s so excited to see you. God, there’s so many people you have to see!” The engine revs, the eagles squawk, the endless flock of people gathers over the dock as they prepare to drive off to Mikasa’s. The sun’s so bright, and yet still no brighter than Armin’s smile. “You happy to be the maid of honor?”

“Oh, yes!” She sounds just like a teenager again, just like everything Eren doesn’t want her to sound like. Cheery. Content.

Beautiful.

Shut her off, her tells himself. Just shut her off your mind. Pretend she isn’t even here right now.

“And you, Eren?” Armin turns his head to face him, permanent grin balling up his cheeks, glowing a faint hue of brown through the tinted lenses of Eren’s sunglasses. “You happy to be the best man?”

Green eyes flicker up to the rear view mirror.

They find her, looking at him, waiting for his reply. Her hand’s still there, right behind his neck, fingers nearly touching him.

“Ecstatic.”

And he reaches up, turns the mirror away from her face.

 

* * *

 

The drive to her house is an arduous twenty minutes.

Armin talks the whole through.

About Annie. About love. About his job as a doctor. About the beach house he’s looking in to buy. About everything. About anything. About his easy, wealthy, perfect life.

Mikasa’s tiny chirps echo from behind him, a delicate melody consisting of “oh yeah?” and “really?” and “wow” and “that’s so nice!”. Pleasant, musical remarks meant to keep the conversation going without spending much effort on being too elaborate.

His best friend vibrates energetically beside him, overcome with such blissful jubilee that Eren wonders if happiness is a sickness that comes with the enamored man. Mikasa’s voice is warm and loving, full of tenderness for her old friend—and in its absence, Eren finds his eyes flicking up to the rear view mirror a handful of times just to check on her, only to be reminded that he’d re-adjusted it to focus on the road that stretched out above her head and no longer on the girl whose presence he keeps struggling so pitifully to keep at bay.

Shut her off, he keeps telling himself. Pretend she’s not even here right now. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.

But time and time again, Eren catches himself failing.

“We’re here.”

The comment isn’t necessary but he pronounces it all the same, causing two perked-up passengers to exclaim in their excitement. Her house is as tall and grand as he remembers. Three stories high, a monstrous porch, a view over-seeing the ocean, propped conveniently atop a giant hill. Basically the complete opposite of anything Eren’s ever had, anything he’d ever even  _dream_ of owning.

He hears Mikasa gasping quietly behind him, her hands roving to her bags and already she’s getting ready to take flight and fly over to her mother—who’s waiting, waving, shouting out her daughter’s name.

“Mikasa!”

“Mom!”

Eren thinks he feels another piece of himself crack a little.

“Oh, I’ve missed you!”

And then a little more.

As soon as the car settles on the driveway, Mikasa’s bouncing up and down on her seat, fretting to run out and set free. Eren’s careful to jump out and slide his seat forward quick enough that she doesn’t contemplate other means of escape, but then he’s forced reach out his hand to help her.  

They touch.

For the briefest of moments.

She places her hand in his and he pulls her up, smooth, milky legs bursting out and landing on the gravel with one giddy hop. “Mommy!” and she’s completely ignored what’s just happened there.

Eren tries, too.

Ignore it, ignore it. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

But his hand itches where she’d touched him. An itch that can’t be scratched.

There’s the girly squeals of a daughter racing up a flight of steps to run into her mother’s arms. They embrace, swaying from side to side, Mikasa’s mom voicing imperceptible praises before pulling her back enough to pepper her face with ardent, messy kisses.

“Muah! Muah! Muah! Mmmmm-uah!”

“Ugh, Mom,” she squirms, grasping her mother’s frail wrists as she holds her face and smooches every inch of her.

Armin’s laughing at the scene, galloping out of the chevy and up the steps, leaving Eren to stand behind on his own.

“No kisses for me?!”

And it’s the wrong-ass question.

Mikasa’s mother practically shoves her own daughter to the side before attacking Armin’s face with his own share of sloppy kisses. There’s giggling coming out of all three of them.

Eren can’t help but laugh a little too.

“Haven’t you noticed?” Armin asks her once she sets him free, anchoring her delicate hands atop his shoulders. “Eren’s here.”

“Eren?” Her expression goes blank, lips contorting as if his name left a sour taste in her mouth.

“Yeah,” Armin smiles, jabbing a thumb in his direction. “Eren.”

And then, slowly, her head turns.

And then, coolly, she looks at him.

“Oh.” Her beady eyes squint down to slits, carefully groomed eyebrows raising to the top of her wan forehead and she croons, “Hello, Eren.”

He waves. “Mrs. Ackerman.”

“It’s certainly been a long time since we’ve last seen you.”

“Certainly.”

And she smiles.

He does too.

Neither of them mean it.

“Well, c'mon! Let’s go inside!” Armin shouts, beckoning for Eren to go into the house with them.

But the way Mikasa’s mother stiffens at that… he sees it. Her lips curve into a smile and yet her brows come together in a frown. It’s amazing. It’s like she’s smiling and scowling at the same time.

“Actually,” he says, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. “I think just I’m gonna go head home.”

“What?!” Armin’s flabbergasted expression mirrors itself onto Mikasa’s face. Her mother however, seems to smile a bit more genuinely now. “But why?!”

“I’ve got some things to take care of,” and it’s not necessarily the truth, but it’s not necessarily a lie either.

“But…” Armin shakes his head, blinking as if he’s got something in his eyes. “Agh, come on, Eren! Everyone’s inside! We all want to see you!”

“I—” Damn it, Armin.Can’t you see he’s trying to escape? “Nah, man. That’s okay. I should really get going.”

“Stay with us, Eren.” Mikasa’s the one to squeak. Her voice yanks his eyes in her direction, cementing them to her face, holding them there for a dangerous amount of time. “It’s been too long.”

“I-I…”

Mrs. Ackerman’s lips twitch with the urge to say something, but remain sealed. She pats her daughter’s shoulders and combs her fingers through her hair, bouncing up a curl in the palm of her hand, looking at him through the corner of her eyes. 

Waiting.

Eren’s quiet for a moment, debating, dreading, cooking beneath the sun.

Armin’s eyes are on him, gigantic, pleading.

Mikasa’s are too.

Gigantic.

Pleading.

God, everything about her hurts.

She’s holding her hands together over her lap, and he’s suddenly aware of how her skirt reaches down above her knees, how her blouse hangs loosely on her shoulders, how her lips look a velvety shade of red even though she’s scarcely wearing any makeup.

And maybe it’s just the scorching heat, or the fact that he feels himself practically melting onto the driveway, but he finally pulls his sunglasses up over his head, sighing. “Fine. Thirty minutes.”

“YES!!!” Armin’s jumping on his heels, thrusting his fists up in the air triumphantly. “Whoo!”

“But no longer than that,” he warns, trotting up the steps.

“Sounds fair.” Mikasa smiles faintly, her voice a puny tweet below Armin’s jubilant cheering. They each make their way to the front door, whence a maid goes out to fetch Mikasa’s belongings and Eren _swears_  he hears Mrs. Ackerman searing quietly—and yet loud enough for him to hear—as he walks through:

“Please.”

 

* * *

 

He’s aware of her presence.

The entire time.

More than what he would like to admit, if we’re very honest. He sees her even when he’s not looking, even when his eyes are trained on someone prettier, someone taller, some other buxom girl with better taste for clothes.

Her house is absolutely _teeming_ with people, swimming about like fish in a pond. Usually, when Armin says people are gathered in one place, he just means that people are gathered in one place. But today, it seems, he’s thrown a goddamn party.

For a long while, Mikasa’s fluttering about, mingling with everyone, smiling softly but never really saying much at all. Eren knows this because he watches her no matter how many times he tries to look away. His eyes shoot over to her every few minutes, drawn to her like magnets, helpless, hopeless. Stuck to her. Stuck on her.

Stuck.

It takes him five minutes to realize she’s cut her hair. It’s shorter now, and it’s not just because she’s curled it. But it looks nice. It suits her. There’s a tiny flower pin she’s worked into her curls. He notices that too.

It takes him ten to see that she’s gotten even prettier—inexplicably so. Her legs seem leaner, her shoulders even broader, that tiny little thing she’s always had for a waist looks even smaller now, and her skin gives off a radiant sort of glow. Pure. Clean. Uncontaminated.

It takes him fifteen before he finally heaves a weary sigh, surrendering to the uncomfortable stares her mother keeps on giving him; like he’s an intruder, unwelcome, a bug that’s crawled into her home needing to be squashed. He decides to shorten his stay, to leave once the clock hits twenty. No later than that, he tells himself. No later than that.

But then the twenty minutes go by.

And Mikasa suddenly appears behind him.

“Hey.” It’s her voice.

Tentatively, Eren turns around. 

He looks at her.

Something lurches in his chest.

He prays it’s not his heart.

“What are you doing?” is the first thing that craps out of his mouth. He regrets himself immidiately, biting down on his tongue, his cheeks catching fire over the way her cheery eyes seem to wince and her smile flinches right off her face.

“Talking to you,” she replies nonchalantly though, regaining her usual composure, pulling a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her earrings shimmer slightly as she does this. Involuntarily, Eren catches himself staring.

And wow.

Just wow.

She really _has_ cut her hair, she really _has_  grown even prettier, she really  _does_  smell just like the past. Earthy yet sweet. Rich yet light. Spicy yet flowery. Jesus fuck. The girl’s entirely impossible.

He blinks his gaze around, catching flickers of his surroundings, fearing that all eyes are on them but finding that none are.

Still, low and hushed, he chides her. “You know you shouldn’t.”

“Ah,” she quips, revealing a row of snowy teeth. “It’s so nice to see you too, Eren! Thank you for noticing that I’ve cut my hair. I know you always liked it shorter.”

He purses his lips.

She smiles softly.

But then, embarrassed, her smile fades again.

“I’ve… Sorry.”

“What are you trying to do, Mikasa?” Her name feels complex on his tongue, tangling it in knots, discombobulating his senses. But her answer is so simple.

“Nothing, Eren.”

She says his name like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it carries nothing, no meaning, like nothing’s ever even happened between them at all.

All he can think to do is scoff. “Okay.”

Then they’re silent.

She’s thinking.

He’s thinking, too.

Time seems to go eerily still again—never in a good way.

Gradually, all the playfulness in her expression slips away. She flattens down her skirt, fixing her blouse, rolling the tiny diamond stud on her necklace along the chain a few times before pulling it up over her mouth and holding there with a sharp pout of her lips.

“I just wanted to talk to you.” She’s still pouting as she says this, which makes her look kinda cute, but Eren knows it’s only a facade. He catches the somber drift in her voice, a hint that it’s actually taking a lot out of her to say this.

It takes even more out of him not to state that there’s nothing they need to be talking about. Because, hey, it’s only the truth.

“About what?” but there he goes again, failing himself. He knows that it’s in his best interest to flee, to get her off his side—but her smile’s back, which makes the necklace drop back to her chest, which makes his eyes flitter down there, which makes him fret the fuck out.

It’s like he’s walking on wire, balancing his weight on one foot, the other extended out behind him and he’s doing everything not to fall, not to give in to the blissful sight of her looking up at him, of her eyes glowing that impossibly dark hue.

“Nothing,” she flaunts, taking the wire in her hands and shaking it vehemently. “I just missed talking about nothing with you.”

“It’s been two years,” he tells her, even smirking a little, wobbling, feeling himself tip over, about to fall. “There’s a lot to talk about.”

And God, the way she suddenly perks up at that…

It’s amazing.

“Then let’s start with this: how are you?”

Eren rolls his eyes, but this only makes her smile brighter. “I’m fine.”

“No, no. Really.” And he knows he’s utterly fucked. He’s fallen—hit rock bottom by this point; splattered onto the ground in a broken, bloody mess. “I mean,  truly, how are you?”

He looks at her, swallows dryly, drowning in the sound of her voice, in the plethora of candid answers that wash over him like a bucket of cold water thrown over his head.

Well,  _truly_ , he’s quite bored. Sad. Lonely. Horny.

“Hungry.” He settles for that.

“Oh, you are?” Suddenly, her hand lands on his forearm and his skin ignites, sparks shooting all across his system as she breathes, “Wait here. Don’t go anywhere.”

And then she’s gone, just like that, lost in the throng of people, lost in the endless rooms of her childhood home. Eren doesn’t have enough time to contemplate what’s just happened because then, just as quickly, she appears with a small plate of food, something that looks like… wait. Hold on. Are those fries  _blue_?

“What’s that?”

“French fries,” she peeps, offering him some. “I got 'em from Sasha.”

Eren furrows his brows, staring at them. “But why are they… blue?”

“Some new potato that’s been discovered. Eat them.” She holds the plate out to him, picking up a fry and nibbling it with her pearly teeth. She chews, nods, beams, “They’re shweet!”

A chuckle passes through him before he can think to stop it, and her cheeks turn a little pink. He’s not sure if it’s the makeup. He’s not sure if it’s just her blushing.

“Does she just, like, carry food around with her?” he says, which makes Mikasa giggle—a sound he’s much too sensitive to hear. “Seriously, where does she get these?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, watching him bring a fry into his mouth. He hums approvingly, her eyes lingering on the vibrations in his throat.

“Well, they’re good.”

“Aren’t they?”

“Blue french fries,” he scoffs, which makes her laugh again.

“I know, right? Who would’ve thought?”

She’s smiling so brilliantly, he’s not even sorry for the way his eyes land heavily on her, watching her, trickling over her face, oozing their way down her slender body.

Her cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink.

This time, he knows for sure she’s blushing.

Eren goes to open his mouth, to make some means of conversations—ask her how school is going, how her life is, if she’s gotten to make any new friends—but suddenly, a figure takes form in the corner of his eye.

An instant is all it takes for him to know who’s staring.

“Your mom’s looking,” he whispers, watching the way Mikasa’s face goes stale, wiped clean of all emotion.

Except for a tinge of fear.

“Just ignore—”

“Mikasa!” Her mother’s sudden belt makes them both jump. The girl turns around in a flash, opening her mouth to speak but her mother’s quick to cut her off, beckoning for her to go to her. “Quickly, dear.”

“Ah, yeah, just—”

“Quickly.” She smiles, but her voice is stern. “Please.”

Honestly, it’s fucking amazing. She’s smiling/scowling again, feigning an affectionate grin when Eren knows that deep inside she’s seething, boiling in a pot full of her own venom.

“Gotta go,” Mikasa murmurs, setting the plate on a small table beside them. “Keep 'em,” she tells him, referring to the fries. “I brought them for you.”

“Ah, I don't—”

They touch.

For the briefest of moments.

His words shrivel up in his mouth once her fingers brush his forearm again a second before she leaves, and her mother’s watching him, watching her, watching everything.

Two seconds later, she’s gone.

His skin burns where she’d touched him.

The smile she’d thrown him over her shoulder still stings.

The entire room explodes in a mirage of colors, vibrant flurries of life that palpitate and shimmer all around him, taunting him, crashing into his skull and reminding that he’s gonna have to bear with this for two more weeks. Two more weeks until Armin gets married. Two more weeks until he’s free to run away. Two more weeks of having to look at Mikasa, of having to be with her, of having to breathe her air.

God, he’s fucked.

He’s so fucking fucked and he knows it.

 

* * *

 

He goes home after thirty minutes. 

Mrs. Ackerman is more than pleased with the fact that he kept his initial promise of staying not a second more. He tells himself he’s pleased too.

He tells himself.

Once at home, Eren grabs a piece of paper, a pen, and sits down to make a list of all the different methods he can take to avoid Mikasa Ackerman until the wedding day—for his own mental/emotional health’s sake.

He takes a deep breath.

Begins to write.

_Things I can do to avoid Mikasa:_

But Armin telephones him before he can produce the first few words, his voice exploding out of the receiver the moment Eren picks up the call.

“ _I MISS YOU BUDDY!!_ _!_ _”_  he screams.

 

* * *

 

If you’re wondering how someone like Eren Jaeger became such close friends with someone like Armin Arlert, well, it’s kind of a funny story.

A wealthy kid befriending a lower class one is definitely not a common occurrence around here, but, to Armin, Eren was the absolute exception. The Arlert’s family ties with the Ackerman’s meant that Mikasa and him were imminent friends. From the very beginning, those two knew one another.

But how Eren ever came into the picture just sort of… happened.

Although he’s always been poor, his Mom did everything in her power to provide him with the best education possible, and this meant attending school with stuck-up preteens who were stuffed up to their eyeballs with their parent’s cash.

Eren hated school.

He especially hated bullies.

Poor Armin always had the misfortune of being deemed weaker than everyone else, but Eren figured it was simply because those jockey meat-heads were jealous of his smarts. He broke his front tooth once trying to defend him. Armin payed for the dental repair bills. They quickly became friends after that, despite their tremendous differences.

From then on, beating up his bullies became somewhat of a routine. It’s not that Eren was necessarily even  _good_  at fighting (and his mom sure as hell wasn’t pleased with her constant summons to the principal’s office), but being friends with Armin meant having a friend at all. And that, to him, was special. That, to him, was literally worth fighting for.

But then, one day, an overwhelming flock of the meat-heads had ganged up on them both. Restless and helpless, Eren fought and fought until his vision went black and his body lost all feeling. He was numb and frayed and bleeding, and like a cornered animal he fought, he bit, he clawed.

It wasn’t until everything was over that he noticed a girl with silky black hair rising to her feet like smoke wafting off the smoldering aftermath. Amazed, he realized she’d joined in too, given everyone the best beating out of the two of them.

Panting and sweating, and with not a single scratch on her marvelous face, the girl brushed her sweaty bangs to the sides and looked at him, smiled, stretched out a bruised hand.

“I’m Mikasa,” she said.  Armin was crying by her feet.

Falling in love with her just sort ofhappened too.

 

* * *

 

_Things I can do to avoid Mikasa:_

  1. _Avoid her._



* * *

 

The next few days are torture.

Rehearsal dinners. Parties. Figuring out where to find a tux.

Noticing more and more things about her.

Noticing her more and more.

He’s noted that her hair falls exactly an inch below her jawline when it’s natural and straight, that there’s a glint that passes through it every time she turns her head, that her smile lingers on her mouth after she speaks for a few moments, like a plagiarized painting that’s been plastered on her face. It never seems genuine unless she’s talking to Annie, or Armin, or her mom.

Or him.

As the days go by, Mikasa contrives more and more ways to close in on him, lingering by his side, stealing his attention, laughing a nuance too loudly so that he’s turning his head to glance her way. She’s constantly loitering around him, slithering closer.

Closer.

He’s going nuts.

Each time she does this, Eren clambers frantically for methods of escape (his previews listing having turned out quite unsuccessful), and riots to keeping himself ripped away from her. But the girl—always, the girl—she finds a way. She finds it.

He’s a helpless victim, drawn pitifully to her traps. Her presence works like magic. He’s talking to someone and then next thing he knows? Voilà! She’s right there behind him.

And his heart—oh, his fucking heart—it’s left bruises on him from how hard it’s rammed against the walls of his chest, trying to burst out of him and run for its life. He’s a mess, an ungodly mess, chipping away little by little as the days grow longer and the conversations duller and Mikasa merely flourishes and he feels himself breaking off in pieces.

She talks to him? There goes a piece.

She looks at him? There goes a piece.

She smiles? Oh, his chest.

She’s gone for a while and he catches himself looking around to see if he can find her? His soul momentarily departs his body.

It takes him a whole damn week to muster up the courage to say hi to her, to stop pretending like she’s not even there.

And the way she smiles at him.

The way she smiles at him. Every. Damn. Time.

She waves, says hello, puts her hand on his forearm, brushes her fingers on his skin, smiles and Eren feels himself chipping, his chest bruising, his heart crapping its fucking pants. The control she has over him is mortifying. A string of raven hair fallen over her face renders him speechless, the careful shape of her nails leave him in awe, the burgundy color of her lipstick, her unique, haunting smell, the mildness of her quiet voice and it’s taking everything in him not to split wide open and bleed to death on the floor.

“Hello, Eren,” she tells him one day as he’s sharing a beer with Armin, already working on his second gulp when she comes up with this unrequited shit: “You look nice today. I really like your shirt—blue. The color suits you!

“ _It_ _b_ _rings out your eyes._ ”

You can bet your ass he choked.

God. It’s like she doesn’t even realize what she’s doing to him.

 

* * *

 

_Things I can do to avoid Mikasa:_

  1. _~~Avoid her~~. Cry._



* * *

 

One night, circa the beginning of week two, Eren finds himself staring at her.

This time, on purpose.

There’s the usual carousal of their wealthy friends, drunk on love and booze and money. Armin’s boasting about his promises in life with Annie listening attentively beside him, and there’s such warm radiance spilling out of her, quiet murmurs that say more than any shouted words.

He’s reminded once again of why she’s so close to Mikasa—arguably, her only female friend. They’re so much alike. So much. It makes him question why she’s not there with her.

There’s something vital missing that night. In the swarm of blondes and brunettes and plates carried about full of Sasha’s blue potatoes, a particular mop of raven hair is nowhere to be seen.

Does anyone else notice?

Can’t anyone else see?

Eren’s out looking for her before he even realizes what he’s doing. He doesn’t care enough to reprimand himself. He doesn’t even bother taking in a breath.

Because all air’s suddenly sucked out of him the moment he finds her, standing in the balcony, staring out at the ocean and the stars, arms propped over the veranda, a fist pressed under her chin, her back to him and even from this angle Eren sees she’s fucking gorgeous.

This is the part where he catches himself staring at her.

(On purpose.)

“Hey.” It’s his voice.

Tentatively, Mikasa turns around to face him.

His mouth goes dry.

His heart—and yes, this time, he fully admits the organ that corrodes him—gives a violent somersault, wanting to leap out of him and jump into her arms.

“Eren,” she smiles dimly. Everything about her looks a bit… turned off.

“You okay?”

Another broken smile, then nothing more.

Her silence. It’s daunting. It says more than any words.

Warily, carefully, he brings himself to stand beside her. The veranda’s cold in his hands, cold on her forearms. The pallid moonlight illuminates her face, shadowing and highlighting her points and contours, the distant hissing of the ocean stretched out before them adding to the sparkly sheen of her eyes, like they hold the sea, and the stars reflect over the water.

Eventually, she answers, “I’m okay.” But Eren frowns, knowing better. Still, too cowardly to prod for more, he settles.

“'Kay.”

Then he’s silent. She’s silent. Neither of them know what to say.

There’s so much that she could tell him, there’s so much that he could tell her—so much that he  _wants_  to. And yet the words stay glued to their tongues, doubt hindering his fortitude, the fragility of each other’s company crippling them both. Fear strangles him in a very odd sort of way. There’s still that initial notion that he shouldn’t be near her, but there’s also an inexorable longing in his being that simply pulls him to her, like he can’t function is he’s too far away from her, like he can’t function if he’s too close. He maintains a safe distance, eyes straining to hold still, heart fluttering with nerves, stomach turning and flipping and he thinks he feels his hands shaking too. Standing quietly beside someone has never been such a strenuous task.

“I saw Sasha brought some more of those french fries,” she says suddenly, snorting gently, turning her gaze his way.

“Ah.” He darts his eyes away, realizing he’d been staring at the bare skin of her shoulder. “Yeah.”

Mikasa snorts again, shaking her head, swiping her bangs away from her face. “She’s funny.”

“Yeah. She is.”

She hums.

And that’s it. They’re back to where they started.

Silence.

Silence, silence, silence.

Eren heaves out a breath, the fluttering in his chest shifting to his lungs and eventually to all his organs. There’s the hissing of the ocean, the hush of the wind, the stars dotted all above and the twinkling reflections in her dark eyes. Eren blinks a few times, looking at her, the jittery beating of his insides coiling at the tips of his fingers, wanting to reach out, touch her, feel if she’s actually there.

“Anyway,” he sighs awkwardly, pulling himself back to reality. “I think I should go back now.”

“Wait.” She reaches out—but doesn’t touch him. “Can you stay? Please?”

“Wha…” Eren’s mouth drifts open dumbly, unsure of what to do. “Uh…”

“You don’t have to talk,” she tells him, her voice a mere hair above a whisper, the crashing of the waves in the distance nearly swallowing it whole. “We can talk about nothing. I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

His lips press together into a thin line, senses wailing for him to run for his life but he—

“Okay.”

He gives up fighting.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.”

And it’s very simple. They don’t talk any more after that.

He hears the muted laughter of everyone downstairs, cheering on God knows what, screaming and whooping with a few squeamish shrills that sound a lot like Historia being subjected to one of her girlfriend’s bouts of drunken revelry where she lifts her off her feet and literally flings the poor girl over her shoulder to carry her around for no particular reason. There’s more laughter and squeals and then the blondie’s screaming, “Annie! Help me!” and Ymir’s roaring, “No! You’re mine!” and everybody’s howling again.

Eren chuckles quietly, staring out at the sea, imagining the scene playing out downstairs in his head. But then he notices…

Mikasa’s very quiet.

He turns his head to look at her, scrutinizing eyes disliking what they find. She’s not laughing. She’s not smiling. Her expression is frigid, frozen features carved from stone.

Suddenly, his hand itches, that pesky itch that can’t be scratched. It wants to reach out, feel her, shake her from her trance. He sees it again: that tinge of sadness in her face, the glum presence of some sort of fear. Her eyes are clouded with worry, a cumbersome brooding of her mind, an aimless wandering. It’s like she’s not even here right now.

What’s wrong with her?

He stares at the whiteness of her hands, at the lankiness of her fingers, at the arms that look meager but he knows are even stronger than his. A fascinating display of contradictions, a perfect presentation of everything he’s ever loved in his life. She’s still fascinating, she’s still bright, but in her darkened silence Eren can’t help but wonder:  

What is she thinking?

What are her thoughts?

Tell me, Mikasa, where are you?

 

* * *

 

He’s ripped the list to shreds now. Twice.

He  _did_  manage to accomplish one of the two methods he’d written down, though.

Guess which one.

 

* * *

 

Flash forward a few days, and it’s finally the wedding day.

Eren wears a burrowed tux.

Mikasa wears a pink dress. Satin. The silky fabric wrapped all snug around her frame. Neckline dipping low in between her breasts. Thin spaghetti straps clinging to her shoulders. A large flower adorned in her hair. No necklace, no rings, no earrings. Just simple, perfect, radiant her. She looks absolutely stunning.

Eren thinks he’s going to cry (again).

Two beers and a shot of some questionable liquid are enough to fend the tears away, but not enough to wipe her off his mind completely. If anything, the images of her merely worsen, her presence screaming with lights and colors like an endless beacon of feeling that never shuts off, that never stops; she never stops haunting him.

He can’t help but replay the balcony scene over and over again in his mind, obsessing over every tiny detail, driving himself mad. How the moonlight had bathed her face, how the wind had kissed their skins and clothes and hair and how her fingers kept fiddling and twitching, fretting over something unknown. They’d “talked about nothing”, stood in silence for a few minutes until she’d finally released a long sigh, turned to him, smiled—that cracked, turned off smile—and told him it was time to go back before the others started worrying. Eren had agreed.

They haven’t talked since.

The wedding day goes by smoothly enough—it’s mostly all just a big blur to him, really. There’s drink, food, people, Armin’s family attacking his face with smooches (seriously, what is it with rich people and kissing people’s faces?) until he’s sure Mrs. Arlert’s left permanent lipstick stains on his skin. His best friend’s cackling like crazy, watching him wipe the red paint off his face, pointing it out to everyone and laughing. Laughing. The guy’s so overcome with happiness, it’s insane.

For a while, Eren thinks he’s even enjoying himself, despite the fact that Mikasa hasn’t talked to him in days. She keeps glancing his way though, but as soon as his eyes meet hers, she blinks hers away and goes on about her business like nothing, pretending he doesn’t even exist.

Honestly? It pisses him off.

And the fact that it pisses him off only pisses him off  _more_.

Some minutes into the wedding, she diligently waltzes right past him, engrossed in conversation, slapping him across the face with her spicy yet light yet rich yet earthy yet flowery yet oh my god someone choke me now please scent. Her dress hangs down all the way to her ankles in a cascade of rosy frills, swaying to and fro as she moves, splaying open like damn curtains drawn back to reveal the sinful view of her bare legs gliding underneath her as she walks.

He can’t help it. He peers at her over his shoulder once she’s a few feet behind, scrutinizing her with his eyes.

The dress is backless.

Fuck.

Eren takes another shot, then another, until soon there’s a comforting buzz through his system and he feels the liquid warmth coursing through his body. An extra shot later, and his eyes blink a little slower, his head feels too heavy for his neck, his thoughts float about aimlessly in his cranium like helium inside a balloon, filling him, but not really doing much else.

Ah, yes, he thinks. Thank you God. Finally. 

He’s tipsy.

Armin’s long past the tipsy point though, high off love’s ecstasy and fucking screaming at the tops of his lungs that his wife is on her way. Before Eren even knows it, the wedding ceremony’s about to begin.

He traipses his way over to the entrance, thankful to be only half-sober when he’s forced to slink through the line of bridesmaids and groomsmen to stand in front, next to Mikasa, and wait for her to slip her arm through his.

“Hello,” she whispers to him, hooking their arms together. Her breath smells sweet. Like honey.

Groggily, Eren blinks, looks down at her, acknowledges her presence with a nod.

“Are you…” she gawks at him for a moment, furrowing her pretty little brows. “Are you drunk?”

“Aha,” he smirks, even snickers a little. “Yep.”

There’s a moment of startled silence. She gapes at him, shocked.

Aaaaaaaand he really has to pee right now.

“Oh. I see.” Eren barely processes her voice, focusing on the aisle stretched out before them, wanting to get everything over with so he can go take a piss. He scolds himself though. That’s not an appropriate thought to have about your best friend’s wedding.

A few uncomfortable moments pass in utter silence, so he pops his jaw, rolls his shoulders, closes his eyes and turns his head to the sides to crack his neck and he knows, he  _knows_ Mikasa’s staring at him the entire time. She’s motionless beside him, completely still. He can’t even hear her breathing anymore.

Suddenly, her arm gives his a tug, telling him it’s time to move.

His eyes flicker over to her.

She’s staring straight forward, serious, not a trace of emotion on her face. God, she looks so scary like that. Has anyone ever told her she has the resting-bitch-face? Where she looks like she’s angry even when she's—

She tugs again.

Oh. Right. Walking.

One foot after the other, Eren starts to move, feeling her arm through the barrier of his clothes, attempting to ignore her presence beside him and finding it as possible to accomplish as if someone were shouting at him through a megaphone “DON’T LOOK AT HER DON’T LOOK AT HER DON’T LOOK AT HER!!!!!”

Obviously, he’s gonna want to look.

And he does. Many times. Nearly tripping on his own two feet because of it.

The arduous march down the aisle is a giant blur too, since he just keeps thinking of how bad he wants another shot, how nice Mikasa smells, how everyone keeps smiling at him—or her, he doesn’t really know—and how brightly Armin’s beaming at the two of them and how her hair’s curled so neatly and beautifully like there’s not even one strand that’s out of place and whoa her tits look really nice in that dress, holy shit.

No, Eren. Stop it. Don’t look at that. Just think of how bad you have to pee. Yeah. Do that. Focus on your bladder.

(God, this day is terrible.)

Honestly, they don’t reach the altar soon enough. But when they do, Eren releases Mikasa’s arms as if it were on fire. She shoots him a questioning glance. He pretends not to notice it.

He takes his place near the Armin, bumping their fists together when the blonde turns around to give him a humongous grin. The rest of the bridesmaids/groomsmen waltz in, and then it’s the ring bearer and the flower girl and then, finally, what everyone’s been waiting for.

Annie

She looks like a majestic fucking swan, floating down the aisle with such ethereal grace that Armin’s wiping away a few awe-struck tears from the corner of his eyes.

“That’s my wife,” he whispers over to Eren, crying.

He can’t help but laugh at his best friend. “Yeah, it is, buddy.”

Annie takes her place before him, and then the wedding ceremony begins ( _HALLELUJAH!_  shouts his bladder). It’s mostly just mindless talking, as far as Eren is concerned. He folds his hands over his front, staring at the back of Armin’s head, at the ceiling, at Mik—

Nope. Nope. Don’t look at her.  _No_.

Bladder. Bladder. Think of your bladder!

They start saying vows, Eren silently thanks God. The sooner the wedding’s over, the sooner he can get away from Mikasa. He slides his hands into his pockets, sighing, when suddenly he feels something…

Sharp.

Prickly?

Smooth.

He frowns.

_Paper?_

His fingertips run along the mysterious item’s surface, feeling it. It’s crumpley—no. Wait. No it’s not. It’s folded. It's…  _neatly_  folded. Shit, fuck, hold on…

He probably looks like such an ass, squinting his eyes into the distance, scrunching his brows together in concentration, trying to gauge what the fuck is in his pocket but his brain cells are swimming in vodka and rum and some other shit he’s doused his liver with that he’s not even remotely aware of what it—

It’s a note!

There’s a note in his pocket!

He fishes it out and holds it up against his thigh, unfolding it with his fingers and boring his eyes through the text written on it. He has to read the message twice before his brain fully processes it.

_Meet me in the gazebo at seven thirty. Sharp._

He gasps, and judging by the way his eyes feel like they nearly bounced right out of his head, he supposes all of his features look like they’re gasping. He knows that handwriting. He knows that handwriting!

It’s her.

HER.

MIKASA FUCKING ACKERMAN.

MIKASA FUCKING ACKERMAN WANTS TO FUCKING SEE HIM!!!

(Cue the loud internal screaming.)

(He suddenly doesn’t have to pee anymore.)

(And no, it’s not what you’re thinking. He doesn’t  _actually_  pee himself.)

(Only metaphorically, yes.)

His eyes bounce up to look at her. She’s already staring. He gapes at her. She looks away. There’s nothing. Nothing. No expression in her face.

After a beat, Eren closes his stupid mouth, realizing what’s just happened, shoving the note back in his pocket and feeling all the alcohol in his system rushing to his head, pooling on his cheeks and he knows for sure he’s blushing.

Remember how his heart had lurched, somersaulted, rammed, whatnot? Well, now he feels it do all of the above. All at once.

It makes him very dizzy.

 

* * *

 

It’s seven thirty. Sharp.

And now, of course, he’s on his way to see her.

The vodka/rum/whatever else have left his body—whether from the shock of it all or because he finally relieved himself, he doesn’t know. Either way, he’s completely sober once the time comes to trudge over to the gazebo, and she picked the perfect time for this…  _meeting_  or whatever. The whole backside of the venue is empty, save for a few drunken guests blubbering about. Everyone else is busy dancing to some headache-inducing jazz back inside. Truly, honestly, she picked the perfect time.

His heart beats crazily, overcome with nerves and fear and excitement. He can’t possibly fathom what Mikasa might want. He can’t possibly fathom why he even wills himself to see her—why? Really. Why is he even going to the gazebo right now? Just about every fiber in his being is wailing for him not to, not to see her, not to talk to her, not to suffocate in her air.

But he’s so hopeless, he’s so weak. He can’t resist her.

His mind wanders, venturing to how she looks today. Her hair, her dress, her heels. So flawless, she’s so flawless, everything about her hurts so much.

Now he’ll get to see her up close.

Now he’ll  _really_  get to talk to her.

His feet walk the trail path to his destination, the gazebo being hidden wittily under a fucking wonderland of flowers, an entirely unnecessary garden of roses and hydrangeas and whatever the heck—just a big monstrous assembly that makes him thankful he’s not allergic to pollen because this place would sure as shit be the death of him.

He’s close enough now to the place that he smells the roses, the hydrangeas, the girl. Just around the curve, he’ll see Mikasa. The gazebo is right there, right there around the corner and he can almost see—

“Mom.”

He stops. Frozen on his feet. Nearly tipping forward from coming to such a sudden halt.

He clutches his chest to keep his heart from dropping to the pit of his stomach because he  _knows_  it’s her, it’s her, there’s no fucking denying it.

Mikasa’s voice is soft, shaky. There’s a tremor in her tone and he can’t understand it.

“He’s slime.”

Oh, shit.

And that’s her mother. Her  _mother’s_ voice, her mother, her fucking mother’s voice—there is no denying it!

His heartbeat shoots up to his ears, thumping, thumping, thumping and he’s nearly blinded. He closes his eyes and blows out the breath he’s been holding, turning to hide behind a bush, feeling his insides whirl with panic and adrenaline and something very close to fear. His heart’s so loud it’s nearly deafening, but he still hears them well.

“Mom, please.”

“No!”

Oh my God.

Are they arguing? They’re arguing. They are so fucking arguing.

“Stay away from him. How many times do I have to tell you that!?”

Oh my God.

Him.

They’re arguing about  _him_.

“Can’t you see he’s getting in your way? I keep telling you but you don’t listen! For the love of God, Mikasa.”

Eren thinks he’s going to faint.

Yup. 

Definitely arguing about him.

“Mom…”

“I knew he’d try to talk to you. I knew it. I knew he’d try to mess with your head.”

“He hasn’t done anything.”

Eren’s brows raise, eardrums still thumping along with his heart, a flicker of hope blooming in his chest.

She’s defending him.

_Mikasa’s defending him!_

“Oh, don’t even try to defend him.”

“I’m not. It’s the truth, Mom. He hasn’t done anything wrong—it’s me! Me.  _I’m_ the one who’s going after him.”

Oh my fucking god ohmyfuckinggodohmyfiuckinggod—

“I should hit you.”

“Go ahead.”

OHMYFUCKINGGODOHMYYFUCKINGOHMYFUCKING—!!!!

“I don’t deserve this.”

“And neither do I.”

“He’s ruining your life.”

“He is not!”

“Do you know how embarrassing it is for me? When you’re sneaking around behind my back—when you’re  _still_  sneaking around behind my back to see him?”

She doesn’t answer her.

Eren thinks he’s going to be sick.

Jesus Christ, please, let this be a dream. He doesn’t know what to do. What should he do?

Should he run?

Should he approach them?

Should he pop out of the bushes and wail at the top of his lungs or something?

Mikasa’s voice is a catty squeal, squashed under her mother’s worsening, thunderous booms.

“I’m not a little girl anymore. I can—”

“No. Stay away from him! I’m not telling you again. I don’t want you talking to people like him.”

People like him?

People like  _him_?

Eren feels his fists clenching, anger bubbling up inside him and he knows that he should flee but his stubbornness holds him in place, it makes him listen. He tortures himself with more.

“People like what?”

“Poor. Filthy. Disgusting. People who need to scrape by because they’re too lazy to make a decent living.”

Poor.

Filthy.

Disgusting.

Each word a different dagger drawn into his heart.

“He’s not lazy.”

“You think we don’t all know what his mother used to do to support him?”

His mother?

What the hell is she saying?

“Mom. Please.”

He holds his breath, the same way one would when expecting a lethal blow.

“She was a whore.”

A fatality.

“A  _whore._ ”

Slowly, Eren closes his eyes.

Takes a deep breath.

Relaxes his muscles.

He doesn’t hear Mikasa, or her mom, or anything. He just feels.

Eren feels his blood boiling.

“What is wrong with you?” Mikasa’s voice is brittle. It sounds like she’s crying. Her mom’s insensitive tone promptly explodes: 

“You are dirt! Dirt! Both of you! I didn’t raise you to swoon over a prostitute’s rat!”

That’s it.

He’s going to wring her fucking neck.

His body darts into motion before he even knows it, tromping, carrying him forward and he can’t see anything, only red, only anger and fire and his mom’s precious face, her tender smiles and the calluses and blisters on her bony hands from working too hard to raise him right and the long nights she stayed up doing homework with him only to work all day the next morning, never dating anyone because she didn’t have the time and because  _you’re the_ _only_ _man in my life,_ _E_ _ren, you’re the only one I need_  and then this dumb fucking bitch is calling her a goddamn—

“Eren?”

His emotions are all clumped into a knot in his throat. He chokes on them.

Mikasa’s eyes are red and moist with tears, looking at him.

Gigantic.

Pleading.

He breaks.

Her dumb cow of a mother’s staring straight at him with her empty holes for eyes, devoid of all feeling and so cruel he wonders how someone like Mikasa could ever come out of a person as vile as her.

He opens his mouth to speak— _fuck you, you’re horrible, you’ll never be even half the woman your own daughter is_ —but something stronger than anything he’s about to say strangles him.

Shame.

**_Shame._ **

It throttles his throat.

Humiliated, Eren swivels around in his heels, stomping off the scene and punching a hydrangea so hard on his way out of the garden that if the poor thing were literally alive it would’ve shed all of its petals with a wheezing cough and died.

He’s practically flying through the venue to make his way out to the parking lot. His legs take as long a strides as they possibly can and yet he can’t move fast enough. He needs to run, he needs to run—now, truly, he is fleeing for his life, getting as far away from Mikasa as possible.

He’s so blind with rage he crashes into something, nearly stumbling on his feet before he realizes it’s Armin.

“Eren!” He holds him by the forearms, looking up at him with those giant, pleading eyes. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m sorry, Armin.” He slithers out of his grasp, trying to walk past him.

“Hey, wait!” His friend grabs him again, blue orbs shrinking with concern. “Where are you going?”

“I just— I-I can’t.”

“What’s wrong? What happened?!”

“I’ll drop your car off at your house,” he raps, doing everything in his power not to meet his worried face. “I can’t do this.”

“Wait!” His heart hurts as he leaves him.  “Eren!”

The music grows steadily quieter behind him, Armin’s shout dissolving into the air until all he hears are his shoes over the gravel, the crunching of the pebbles beneath his steps, his thoughts whirring and provoking him _: idiot, idiot, idiot. Eren, you big fucking fool. What were you expecting? What more do you want? Idiot. Idiot. Always hoping for too much and then you wonder why they break your heart._

_IDIOT!!!_

It takes him five minutes to reach the chevy, open up the door and make his way inside. Thankfully, he left the top on, so he’s hidden when he has to wipe away a few pathetic, angry tears. He doesn’t even bother buckling his seat belt, he’s jabbing the key into the ignition and turning it to rev up the engine, setting the car in reverse when…

“Drive.”

He turns his head to find Mikasa.

_Mikasa._

She slinks onto the passenger’s seat, throwing the door shut, an undeniable hunch lading her shoulders and Eren has to blink a couple of times to realize that it’s really her.

He shakes his head, flabbergasted.

“What are you—?”

“Drive,” she spits, closing her eyes, clenching her fists. She looks like she’s about to punch something—the car, him, anything. Through her teeth, she grits, “Just drive.”

Eren gapes at her. He’s so confused, so startled, and yet his arms and feet move under her command. It’s like he’s watching his own body as an outsider, helplessly complying to her orders, pulling out of the driveway and then next thing he knows, they’re already on the street.

His reality hits him piece by piece, coming together gradually like a puzzle. It takes him a while to process that Mikasa’s right next to him, and he’s so direly torn between driving on forever so that she can never escape and just throwing her door open and kicking her out onto the street so that he never has to see her again. He knows he should be angry at her—he _wants_  to be angry at her.

But she’s crying.

He hears her.

Her whimpers and snivels puncture right through his ears and immobilize him. He’s not even sure he’s breathing anymore, her pain affects him that much. Seeing Mikasa cry is just so weird—he’s never known what to do when she gets like this, especially when it’s regarding her mother. And it’s  _always_ regarding her mother.

They’re already coasting through the mountains before he musters up the strength to talk.

“Where should we go?”

“Anywhere.”

His knuckles bleed white from how hard he grips the steering wheel. Hesitantly, he bolts his eyes in her direction, only to look away just as quickly, barely catching sight of her at all. Just the  _feeling_ of her being there beside him makes him unnaturally car sick.

All his previous anger leaves him in one big sigh. “Mikasa…”

“Please,” he hears her choke, and his eyes drift over to her again, seeing tears rolling unremittingly down her face. She looks so vulnerable, so small. Part of him just fucking tears. “Take me away from here. Take me far, far away.”

Over her lap, her hands are shaking, and he sees that the skin below her knees have been scraped raw, like she’s fallen on them. His heart sinks in his chest, crumbling entirely once he notices the hand print on her cheek, red and ugly, her mother’s lanky fingers painted across her face. He balks, thinks he’s going to start crying with her. A million different thoughts are pounding in his brain, a million different questions fighting to be heard, but he chooses not to voice them, he keeps them in his mouth. Eren doesn’t do anything, for there’s nothing he can really do.

He drives.

Just drives.

And feels himself shatter.

 

* * *

 

_Things I can do to avoid Mikasa:_

  1. ~~_Avoid her_~~ _._ ~~ _Cry_~~ _. You don’t._



You just don’t.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some parts are seen through Mikasa’s point of view bc I felt they'd be depicted better through her eyes. I listened to Fly On by Coldplay non-stop, especially for the scenes where Mikasa’s looking back at the cabin and when they're at the place Eren wanted to take her. I think it’s such a gorgeous song and fits the story/characters perfectly (especially Eren). I’m almost embarrassed to say I cried while writing this. I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

* * *

 

Two minutes.

That's how long it takes for Eren to decide where they should go.

Ten.

That's how long it takes for Mikasa to stop crying (or sobbing, more like).

Eren's chest is fucking killing him. His lungs feel like they're being compressed, squeezed tight inside an iron fist and there's no escape, there's no loosening its grip on him. Her breaths beside him are shallow and repetitive, little hiccups in the aftermath of her emotions. He wants to close his eyes, mute her suffering, for it bludgeons its way through all the shit he's propped up as a barricade around his heart throughout the years. Lies. Quarrels. Wasted memories that have hardened with time—he's perched them up so that they form the walls that keep his insides intact, guarding off anything remotely threatening. And yet every “hic” and sniffle and shuddered breath of hers crumbles his defenses and slices its way through like a sword, scathing him in the deadliest of ways.

Eren tries not to look at her.

At the scrapes on her knees.

At the hand mark on her face.

At the mascara running down her cheeks.

For fear. For fear that he may break if he stares for a second too long.

I'm sorry, he wants to say. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for all the shit that's happened to us both.

But his tongue's stuck in his mouth, heavy like a block of cement. He's so useless. He can't think of what to do.

So he drives.

Just drives.

He drives to the only place he can think to take her.

Mikasa's quiet the entire thirty minutes it takes them to get there. Halfway through, she stops crying altogether, staring vacantly out the window, uttering not a single word him at all—but every now and then Eren steals glimpses of her hands, only to find that they're still shaking. Her knees begin to bleed after a while, but she doesn't notice this. Half of him suspects she doesn't even care.

“In the glove compartment,” he says suddenly, making her jump. “There's cleansing wipes.”

Mikasa's eyes are wide, goggling him, confused, the hand print on her face fading only slightly.

Eren purses his lips, straining not to look at it.

“For your knees.”

“Oh.”

While she's searching for them, he allows himself a diligent peek at her through the corners of his eyes, noticing the small bumps of her spine poking out from under her skin as she hunches over. Her arms look limp even while they're moving, her hair a total mess, dark streaks of mascara are drying up on her cheeks—haunting trails of her mother's physical and emotional abuse—and her fingers tremble as they rip the small cleansing wipe packets open, rivulets of blood trickling down her polished shins, skin a ghostly shade of white and her curls have frayed and loosened and yet she's still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

He feels, rather than sees, the way she lifts the frilly skirt of her dress mid-thigh to wipe off the blood on her, not even wincing in the slightest. He listens in on her breathing, wallows in every inhale and exhale, in every tiny, imperceptible hiss that passes through her teeth.

His heart beats and beats and beats, tearing through what's left of his pitiful barricade.

He's naked.

Raw.

Cracking wide, wide open.

This girl—the one that's hissing, wiping her blood, with a slap stain on her face and oozing scratches on her knees—she's the one responsible for shaping his life. She's the one who taught him what it is to truly want something, to love someone with every ounce of his being, to fight for causes greater than himself. She took him places he would've never been able to reach on his own. She showed him so much, loved him, cut her own hands arranging all his broken, jagged pieces back together. Never once complaining, never once asking for anything in return. She was perfect, always gentle with him. Always perfect.

And she's breaking. Right there, beside him. The perfect girl, she breaks.

Clearly, she's not one to be troubled with modesty right now, slumping back on the seat without bothering to cover her thigh or pull a fallen strap of her dress back over her shoulder. The sight of her is very dangerous, he knows.

He thinks she knows too.

The neckline of her dress droops to one side, revealing a large chunk of her chest and part of her left breast and the soft outline of the petite mound screams at him, the milky expanse of her thigh wails, the shape of her feet—arched in her heels—screech like tires burning on asphalt as she bring a leg up and Eren's eyes ache from struggling to hold still.

Mikasa sighs beside him, pressing the towelettes to her skin, closing her eyes and he can smell the faint, metallic tinge of her blood, the sharp burning smell of the wipes' disinfectant, the girly scent of her hair, the natural sweetness that radiates off her and the mixture makes him feel both incredibly elated and alarmingly ill. His forearm's resting on the arm rest when she accidentally bumps his fist with the side of her leg, her soft skin grazing his knuckles and he snaps his hand away from her, clasping it around the steering wheel, the places she'd touched set aflame.

“Sorry,” she breathes.

He doesn't answer her.

Her shoulder's bare.

A chunk of her chest's showing.

Her breast.

Her leg.

Eren runs a hand down his mouth.

(God, he's fucked. He's so fucking fucked and he knows it.)

She starts fiddling with the flower in her hair, which has fallen out of place anyway. She tucks it inside the door pocket, shifting around on her seat, the fabric of her dress rustling and Eren's only finding it harder and harder to ignore her presence by his side.

But you know what?

Fuck it.

Fuck ignoring her. Fuck pretending like she doesn't exist. Fuck pretending anything—he _sees_ her, he _feels_ her, he pierces her with his eyes because why the hell shouldn't he? Why shouldn't he allow himself to look at her? He dated the damn girl for three years—why shouldn't he be allowed to just _be_?

Fuck her mom.

Fuck her upper class.

Fuck his lack of money.

Fuck everything.

“Band-aids.”

Mikasa turns her head to gawk at him, soft lips parted in surprise. “What?”

“Somewhere in here,” he taps the arm rest with a knuckle, “there's band-aids.”

“Oh.” His eyes flick over to her. The mark on her face is starting to fade, at least. “Okay.”

She moves warily, like she's trying not to make too much noise, which means she thinks he's mad at her—and he still _wants_ to be, be sure of that. But he isn't. He can't be. Not with the way she picks out the pink princess themed band-aid out of the stack of perfectly regular band-aids, not with the way she pulls out another (purple; poppy flower themed) and then leans forward to secure them on her little scrapes. She takes her time, measuring their position precisely, meticulous as always as she carefully sticks the bandages to her skin. It's only when he allows his eyes to venture over to her again that he sees the side of her left hand's also bleeding.

Another scrape.

He sighs.

“It's a good thing Armin's a doctor,” she tweets, chuckling softly. “Right?”

She searches his face, digging around for a reaction.

But he gives her none.

He stares straight ahead at the road.

Silence falls upon them, a presence so thick and dense one might be able to cut through it with a knife. She settles back on her seat, fixing her dress, buckling her seat belt, smoothing her hair behind her ears, sitting up straighter and placing her hands over her lap and holding still—her foot fidgets, though; he _feels_ it fidgeting. She's like a child who's just been called into the principal's office.

Fretful.

Afraid.

Guilty.

Eren doesn't look at her (mostly because he can't), but he holds on to her every breath, as if the oxygen that flows through her lungs also flows through his, and her every exhale is a mere release of his own air. It takes him a while to realize he's been matching his breaths to hers. (It takes him another to get over the embarrassment.)

“Did she push you?” The question just falls right out of his mouth. Mikasa's quiet for a moment, running a finger over one of the bandages on her knees before answering him.

“No.”

“Hmm.”

He doesn't ask her more, knowing she'll elaborate when she's ready. It takes her a while, though. She employs herself by wiping off the mascara on her face with a napkin she finds around, taking out another cleansing wipe packet and cleaning the scrape on the side of her hand then checking both her elbows before sighing, relieved. Luckily, she tore no skin there. She must've fallen pretty oddly.

Eren's patient. He waits. He waits for her to finish procrastinating until, eventually, she presses two fingers on her cheek, touching the spot her mother had attacked as if she were recalling the sting vividly.

“She hit me.”

“And you fell.”

“I tripped.”

Eren frowns at the road, gripping the steering wheel even tighter. He thinks he feels his knuckles popping, complaining under the sudden force.

“Over what?”

She's quiet again, bringing the napkin back up to her cheeks and swiping it in circles to clean off the stubborn mascara, staring down at her feet.

Eren sighs. Annoyed.

“You're sure she didn't push you.”

“She wouldn't.”

“No,” he scoffs. “She'd just smack you across the face, is all.”

Mikasa's features darken with a cloud of anger. He knows his comment ticked her off, but he doesn't really give a shit. Good. Let her be pissed. Let her be mad at him. Too much time's gone by pretending they don't feel anything at all.

He's pretty sure she'll recoil into herself now, the way she always does when he says something that displeases her. But she surprises him. She talks.

“I didn't think she'd find me… back at the gazebo. I—”

“It's fine,” he interjects, promptly disagreeing with the way the conversation's headed. “Don't worry about it.”

“I planned it. I had it all plan—”

“It's okay.”

“But no, wait. Listen. About what she said… about your mom, she—”

“Mikasa. Please.” She goes stiff as a rock beside him, her voice disappearing into the air. “Just stop, okay? I don't care.”

He thinks she'll start crying again. Her cheeks swell and her throat bobs as she swallows down a lump. But she doesn't cry. She just finishes cleaning off the rest of her ruined makeup, turning her body away from him, giving him space.

Eren's quiet for a long time, coasting through road that leads to hills and homes and then further into mountains.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, voice fragile, light, like a feather. “That's all. I'm just sorry.”

His lungs—compressed.

His heart—naked.

His body—every inch—burning with the need to touch her.

“I understand.”

He seethes over his yearning for her, his hunger, his inevitable longing for the girl who mends his life. His skin feels like it's dissipating, peeling from his flesh and revealing muscle, bone, emotions left unsaid.

Leaning her head against the reverberating window, Mikasa closes her eyes. Slowly.

She's so beautiful.

He doesn't understand.

And to think of all the time they'd spent together as teens, of how many firsts they'd stolen from each other behind her mother's back. To her, he was her first everything. First kiss, first love—he'd even taken her virginity (she'd also taken his). Having her here beside him reminds him that even two years apart aren't enough to wash the prints he's left on her, and neither are they ample to cleanse the wounds she's left on him. He's marked her in a way that will stay with her forever, she's marked him in a way he could never even dream to erase. People, sometimes, come into your life and do that.

Save you.

Then tear you right apart.

The rest of the trip goes by in silence, but it's better that way. The sun's dimming in the sky with nightfall being only an hour or so away, sky a vast painting of blue and pink and orange when he pulls into a driveway, pronouncing, “We're here.”

Mikasa straightens, perking up like she's been asleep and has only now awoken. Her curls whip about as she turns her head this way and that, eyeing her surroundings. She asks, with the most tentative of voices:

“Where are we?”

 

* * *

 

There's trees everywhere.

A small cabin a few feet away.

But then nothing. Nothing more. Just the driveway, the trees, the cabin, and the street stretched out behind them that leads to God knows where.

Eren turns the key in the ignition, killing the engine, opening the door and kicking his feet out before calmly—very, very calmly—replying.

“We're in my place.”

Mikasa's eyes grow huge like saucers. She blanches, taking a moment before unbuckling her seat belt and getting out of the car. Her heels dig into the dirt below and she wobbles slightly, watching Eren shrug off his tux jacket, flinging it over his shoulder and unbuttoning his dress shirt by the wrists before cuffing the sleeves up to his elbows. His forearms are sculpted, veins stretching out under tanned skin like lightning bolts, muscles apparent under the primness of his white shirt and Mikasa's cheeks feel like they're boiling—hot, hot, hot, hot!

She's still standing by the passenger's side of the car, placing her hands over the top cover of the convertible. She queries, voice very small and sheepish, “You live here?”

“Yup.”

She's silent for a moment, watching him undo his bow tie, take off his vest, run his fingers through his hair to mess it up before chucking everything—except the jacket—inside the car.

She frowns.

Why is he getting naked in the middle of nowhere?

Tap, tap, tap. Her fingers tap the vinyl nervously, curious eyes glancing around at the trees, which hiss and dance around them in the hush of the wind. Her voice, once it leaves her mouth again, is even shier than before.

“I thought you lived with your mom, though.”

The driver's side door's thrown shut.

_Bam!_

“I moved.”

He throws her his jacket and she catches it, giving him a questioning look in return.

“You'll need it,” is all he says.

“But why?”

He's ruffling his hair with both hands now, getting it even messier. “We're going some place windy. You'll get cold.”

“No, I mean…” He's still ruffling. “I mean… why aren't you living with your mom anymore?”

Boom.

Just like that, the ruffling stops.

He stares straight over her head, a strand of his now-unruly hair falling over his eyes, dark brown contrasting the bright teal-green of his irises. He seems to think for a moment, blinking a couple of times before bluntly stating:

“She died.”

A second.

Two.

It takes three before Mikasa fully processes what he's just told her. And then…

The sky collapses on top of her.

The earth below gives out.

She falls, falls, plunges straight down into darkness.

“She what?”

Teal-greens meet her startled orbs.

His voice comes out even colder.

“She's dead.”

The look on her face is utter tragedy. Her mouth's hanging open like it just lead her soul out of her body and she'smortified, gasping, clutching her chest as if he'd just lacerated her heart with his words. Tears well up in her eyes and Eren has to swallow a couple to time to retain his cool composure.

“When did…?”

“Two months after you left for school.”

“Eren...” Mikasa closes her eyes, brows furrowing so deeply that creases form on her forehead. She takes a deep breath, wincing as if her lungs were cramping, her lower lip quivering. “I am so, so sorry.”

“I'm fine.” Simple. Apathetic. He says it like it's no big deal. He beckons for her to follow him, smoothing his hair away from his face. “Come on.”

The shock of what he's just told her has her frozen in place, but her feet bolt to action soon enough, her body moving like she's no longer inside it, like some other level of consciousness is what's making her move. Leaves crunch beneath their footsteps and everything's just dirt and grass until they make it to a gravel path, her eyes lingering on his small cabin home until they're so far into the forest that she can't see it anymore. The whole time, an image plays in her mind:

Carla.

With her bright eyes and even brighter smile and her disheveled mop of chocolate hair thrown all to one side, held in place by a lax ponytail, her fingers scarred from too many jobs and Eren's very features mapped out on her face: his grin, his long lashes, his button nose, his narrow chin, his sparkling enthusiasm—all of it there, a mere replica of her. _Not a tinge of his father in him_ , she used to say. _And he's better off!_

Peering back at the cabin, Mikasa swears she hears her voice, hissing through the trees, rich and sweet, filling and delightful like the bowls of food she used to feed her whenever she'd stop by to _put some skin on your bones, child._ The wind on her skin is her hand's gentle touch, blunt nails scraping along the planes of her back soothingly as she sought refuge in their home, shaking and crying and with marks all over her body and face, the bruises her own mother had inflicted upon her caressed by the woman's callused, loving hands (and thenkissed by Eren later on at night, when his mom was sleeping, his lips taking their time to heal the contusions on her skin. Sometimes, it felt like even her muscles were bruised; and on those nights, they'd do a little more than just kissing).

The smell of tree bark and earth and nature is the soft scent of her hair, strands that used to tickle Mikasa's face when they'd huddle close together on her bed back when she wasn't allowed to sleep with Eren. ( _Not under my roof will I allow you two to try anything funny. She sleeps here? She sleeps with me_ ). I'm sure you can imagine the dramatic roll of the eyes her son would give her, the giggles she'd elicit from Mikasa, the awkward good night's that were spoken between the two before they'd go their separate ways, always closing the door to their respective rooms slowly, peeking out through the cracks. Smiles. Quick waves. Silent I love you's spoken between eyes and then the click of a latch and they were worlds apart, craving one another, Carla's sleeping gown on Mikasa'smottled body poignant with the smell of their home, her nostrils itching for his scent in rebellion, skin tingling with the need to have him draped all around her—but she got Carla. She always got Carla whenever she stayed at their place.

Eventually, her stern rules ebbed away, replaced by soft _goo_ _d_ _night_ 's and _sleep tight, you two_ 's and kisses pressed to Mikasa's forehead when she'd been feigning sleep. Many times, when laying in Eren's sleepy arms, she found herself yearning to be in the room across from his, smelling Carla's hair and having her face tickled and pretending not to enjoy the way she would sometimes roll over in her sleep and throw an arm around her, pull her closer, hold her like if she were her own kid. Many times, she did this. Every time, Mikasa convinced herself that she was merely confusing her for Eren in her dreams. But then, one night, an amber orb had cracked open to meet her sleepless eyes, and a smirk had curved her mouth, a drowsy _you should be asleep,_ _young lady_ wasuttered, her heavy lidsdrew shutand just like that she drifted off to slumber again.

Her arm remained around her.

Mikasa finally understood what itfelt like to have a mom.

In the wooden logs of the cabin, she makes out the delicate curves of her frail frame, thin and laded by a mild hunch. In the porch, she sees her, stretching her arms over her head, sighing. Her thin legs carrying her forward, hair thinned and grayed, the extra years she never got to live bearing their imprints on her skin in the form of smiley wrinkles, skin freckled with age, her senile face turning, slowly, until she meets Mikasa's gaze. And then a grin dawns on her lips, bright and blinding like the sun, youthful and dazzling and entirely _her._ She sees her the way she deserved to live long enough to be. Old. Happy. Witnessing the man Eren's grown to be. She sees her how she wishes she could see her, and then a tree cuts into her line of vision, and then another, another, another, until finally she loses sight of her completely, and she knows she'll never see her face again.

She'll never see her again.

Her mother's gone.

It's not until she hears Eren scoffing that she realizes she has tears spilling down her cheeks, leaking off her chin, fresh and raw and remorseful.

“Don't cry,” he tells her, smiling softly. His resemblance to his mother only makes her cry even more. She stops cold on her feet, sniffling, rubbing her fists over her eyes, his jacket hangingby the crook of her arm and it shakes as she trembles profusely.

“I'm sorry,” she chokes.

“It's okay,” he whispers.

Her body jumps and she hears herself sobbing, lips contorting with interrupted breaths and she knows she should stop, but the tears rush out and her heart breaks and the knowledge of Carla leaving both of them forever destroys her in every way. Eren's silent, standing nearby with his hands tucked inside his pockets, waiting for her with all the patience in the world.

“I'm so sorry, Eren.” Sob. Sniffle. Sob. “I kn-know how m-much you loved her. And I-I… I loved her too.” Sob. Sniffle. Hiccup. Sob. “I l-l-loved her s-so m-much!”

Her weeping's utterly atrocious, she knows. But she's lost all control of herself. It's like everything she's bottled up in the past two years has finally spilled out and there's no stopping it, there's not stopping the pain and the lies and the loss from consuming her. She aches. She aches everywhere, in every way, in every part of her body and soul. It's like someone's yanked her composure right out of her, and her insides crumble within her, leaving her barren and desolate and tremblingin defeat. The pain is so sudden and overwhelming that she gasps again and again, breathless, knees shaking and threatening to buckle, every ounce of strength left inside her liquefying and she's molten, dripping, falling apart right in front of Eren.

His voice is so quiet, she barely hears it over her own hiccuping and blubbering.

“I know you did, Mikasa.”

“Ugh.” She rubs her eyes so hard they start to burn. Tears are gushing out of her and clinging to her wrists before tickling down her forearms. “I'm sorry,” she croaks, “I don't mean to cry so much. God, you must be sick of me.”

Eren puffs out a snort. “Don't be ridiculous.” And then, incredibly, long fingers curl around her wrists andshe jumps, surprised when he pulls her hands away from her face only to snickerat her presently stateand smirk, “Oh, look,”quirking a brow, “you've messed up your mascara.”

Two strong hands cradle her face, and her insides buzz, resurrecting, blood rushing to her cheeks as if his palms posses their own gravitational pulls, drawing everything within her closer to them, lifting her higher on her feet and supporting her. His breath hits her face, and she inhales it like it's oxygen, breathes him in like he's the very essence of life. She doesn't even hear him when he adds:

“Again.”

She hardens into stone once his thumbs swipe the skin below her eyes, wiping her tears and make up away and his face is so close, such a shocking proximity that she holds her breath for fear that he might be able to feel it— _she_ _can_ _still_ _feel his,_ _she can feel his!_ —and the pain is still biting and stunning but his touch is so gentle and loving and so… just so…

Carla.

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, and he doesn't let go of her until he's convinced he's cleaned the makeup off completely. In his hands, she finds solace, the gasping satisfaction of quenching a dire thirst. But then they're gone, and she feels hunger, weak and dizzy with the need to have more.

And he _gives_ her more.

He touches her.

He holds her hand.

He doesn't let go.

“Come on,” he says, giving a reassuring squeeze. Every ounce of her exclaims.

Ecstasy.

Now she's weak and dizzy in a whole new way. Too much. She's had too much of him in too little time and it's like she's overdosing on him—and she's merely holding his hand! Her heart beats so fast, she thinks it's going to bulge out of her chest and give her away. Staring at the back of his head as he walks in front of her, she observes the way his mutted hair pokes out in all directions, the way his mom's hair used to do and it's like suddenly he's not the only one holding her hand anymore. She feels Carla hold her too, and the sudden relief of the sensation halts any further tears from inundating her gaze. It's a sliver of light in the darkness, knowing that she's still here, somewhere, somehow, lingering around them, living in herson; breathing through him, through her.

She feels her.

She feels her everywhere.

In the birds, in the grass, in the sky. Everywhere. The presence is so vast and unimaginable, and although the skeptic in her knows well enough to question such a feeling, she accepts it as if it were the simplest of truths, as if she's only discovering something she's known all along. In her mind, there are no questions, only the breathing world around them, the certainty of Carla's love, and the way Eren holds her hand.

She feels him draped all around her.

He never lets go.

Her eyes are dry and dull from crying, heavy with something close to sleep but not quite. She's wide awake now, in every sense of the word.

And she never lets go either.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing.

His fingers are damp with her tears.

Tainted.

Purified.

Her hand is small and soft and warm and fierce and he's trying really hard not to trip over leaves and rocks and shit as he walks because now it's like moving at all is too much for him. Motions are rigid and tentative and he fears he may choke on air or that his pants will spontaneously rip open or that something unbelievably embarrassing's going to undoubtedly occur because Jesus knows this day only gets progressively more difficult by the second.

He half-contemplates letting go of her hand.

He half-concludes he's not capable of doing such a thing.

He fully understands that he is one torn, fucked up man right now.

“Daddy died too,” she says under her breath when she catches up to him, the sound of the heels over the gravel ticking in his ears like a clock.

“I heard.”

“It happened a year ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

“I'll be fine,” and he nearly says _of course you'll be._ _You're strong. You're the strongest person I've ever met_ _and_ _I don't doubt at all that you'll survive this._

But he, the torn, fucked up man, chooses to be silent.

They're getting closer to the place now.

He's relieved.

He's sad.

Both because he's gonna have to let her go and because he's uncertain of whether he'll ever get to touch her again. This may as well be the very last time he does, as far as he knows. Her heels keep ticking and tocking and taunting and crying and it's all too much.

Until finally they reach the damn place, and the gasp that spreads her lips wide open stalls all of time right in its tracks.

“Put my jacket on,” he tells her, but she's quickly flittering about, gasping even louder and then covering her mouth.

“Oh, my goodness!”

He can't help his complacent smirk—and you should see the way it vanishes. Like it's afraid of lingering on his face for too long.

“This place!” She jogs until her heels meet pavement, gasping one more time and then, this time, Eren smiles, unable to contain himself. “Eren, this is amazing!”

“I knew you'd like it.”

“Like it!? This is like— This is like— I don't even know!”

And it's the way the sun's setting over the horizon and the orange with pink with blue glow of the sky complements the rosy sheen of her dress that suddenly reminds him how surreal this girl is, and he decides that he'd rather have this—despite the scrapes and blood and whore calling and all that—than anything they would've ever done back at the gazebo.

They're standing on a hilltop, overlooking the sea, and the sunset is right there in front of them, so grand and up-close it seems like a painting merely an arm's reach away, tempting one to touch it, stain their fingertips with each vibrant, ebullient color. The sun is a brilliant smudge of light scattered by the pink clouds; a tinge of violet painting the heavens, hardly even there, only an afterthought; shimmers in the water, glints that spread everywhere and Mikasa's standing smack in the middle of it all, the main attraction, the true masterpiece, the real breathtaking sight.

He eyes the bare skin of her back, the way her shoulders rise and fall as she sighs wistfully, and how the wind blows her loosened curls, ruffles the frills of her dress. The sun is blocked by her body as she moves closer to it so what he sees is the way she stands—straighter, stronger, with more intent—and how the luminous colors splay around her in a circle, clouds branching out of her in frozen flames, all of nature re-arranging itself to align with her and everything about it is so ethereal it takes him a moment to breathe, recompose himself, summon the will to approach her.

She doesn't look at him when he stands beside her, but she speaks.

“It's so beautiful.”

“It is, isn't it?”

“This is just...” She shakes her head, and he swears he can see the violet, the blue, the orange, the pink, all of it reflected in her. The rosiness of her lipstick matches the color of her dress, and it's an observation he hadn't made before, that he's glad he now has. He also notices the way her lashes wisp outward, no longer coated by mascara so they are their natural length, long enough to cast shadows on her face and her pasty skin is bright with sunlight, the stain of her mother's red fingers a mere shadow that vanishes into memory, scrubbed clean by the spry enthusiasm she now beams with. He can smell her scent, only now he catches the sweetness and the spiciness and not so much the blood and disinfectant anymore. He wonders what it would be like if he had the freedom to lean in, kiss her, savor the pinkness of her lips and see if it's still familiar or if she's changed so much even her taste's grown foreign. He wonders, and then he realizes he's been staring at her for some time, and that now she's staring right back at him.

“Thank you, Eren.”

“Y-yeah.” It takes him a second to remember how to breathe. “Wait. For what?”

“For this.” She motions to vaguely to her surroundings, smiling, and it's the first time he's seen her do it all day. “For everything. For getting me away from Mom and the wedding and… everything else. For saving me, pretty much.”

He sighs through his nose, tapping his jacket to prompt her to slip it on. She complies, pushing her arms through the sleeves, and once it's finally on her a snicker escapes his mouth. He covers it, apologizing.

“What?” She's smiling again.

“Nothing.” So is he.

“What, you don't think I can rock a tux?”

“No, actually. Not at all.”

“Oh!” She punches him on the arm. He flinches, sniggering. “Rude!”

“I'm just saying.” Rubbing the spot where she'd attacked him, he smirks at her glower, at how tiny she looks and how massive his jacket looks around her. It gives him a sense of satisfaction, seeing her in his (borrowed) clothes, like he's latched her onto him somehow and trapped her.

“How about you try on these heels?” she dares, jabbing out a foot and stomping it near his feet. “We'll see how good you look in them.”

“Nope,” he's poring over her toes, admiring the square shapes of her nails, the pallid smoothness of her shin, the princess themed band-aid on her knee. “That's quite alright.”

Her hands are lost inside the sleeves, so that when she flicks him on the forehead all he gets is half of an index finger springing out, the fabric attacking his face, the _blonk_ of her nail knocking his skull and whole lot of giggling on his end.

She laughs, too.

It's the greatest sound in the whole world.

 

* * *

 

They smoke.

Cigarettes, that is.

“Where'd you get these?” she'd implored.

“The car,” he'd answered. “Want one?”

She'd shaken her head, declined politely.

“I don't smoke, Eren.”

And yet here she is. Smoking. With Eren.

How grand.

Today's been the oddest of days, that's for sure. Back at the wedding, she never would've thought this is the course the night would inevitably take. Everything had been organized so rigorously: she'd listen to her mother, be a good girl, attend two of her best friends' wedding and then return home, take a shower, go to sleep, pretend not to feel the throbbing lust for more, more life, more adventure, more dazzling stars in the sky. She wonders…

When did it all go wrong?

When she'd first insisted for more from the heavens?

More stars, more clouds, more astounding colors?

Or was it when she'd written that note, slipped it into Eren's pocket when he was busy being… not sober? When she'd waited at the gazebo? Planned a speech and a long, drawn out apology only then to turn and find her mother standing behind her, drawing back a hand to—

“It's not that hard,” he's mumbling with a cigarette butt pressed between his lips, “you just inhale.” Inhale. “And then let it out.” Exhale. He lets it out.

“Okay. I got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“I don't want you choking again.”

“Just—“ She takes it from his hand. “Give it to me.”

His eyes are on her, amused, a small smile tightening his lips and she shoots him a glance, he beckons for her to go on, she wrinkles her nose in disgust but brings the tube to her mouth anyway, puckers her lips around it, holds it in place with awkward fingers; all the true makings of a novice.

And so she does as he'd instructed:

Inhale—

“Hold it.”

“Hmnph?!”

Wide eyes, cheeks puffed out and lips scrunched together and the smoke is hot and gross and muggy and she swears it'll start wafting out of her ears like a chimney. The look on her face is dire so he chuckles, “Okay, let it out,” and it tastes like shit. Putrid, nasty, nicotine shit. The smoke settles on her tongue like a thick coating, sticking to the insides of her mouth. She doesn't choke this time, but her awful grimace as she puffs away says it all. Her lips distort in utter repulsion. It feels like even her pores are clogged with the vile fumes she's just inhaled.

“Spit,” he says, taking the cig from her hand.

“Huh?”

“Spit!”

So she clasps her hands over the railing and leans back to gain momentum before pivoting forward and shooting a wad of spit out of her mouth. Horrifyingly enough, the wind blows a fat string of her saliva down to her chin, making Eren chortle like a maniac as she brings a hand to her mouth, embarrassed.

“Jesus Christ.” He's shaking his head, grinning, bringing the cigarette to his mouth before taking a long drag and her cheeks and tummy burn with the flush of humiliation. She wipes her spit with the back of her hand.

“Sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” he squawks, smiling still, the suave curve of his lips enchanting her before she watches the smoke puff out of his nostrils and then his mouth, much more elegantly than the violent clouds she'd conjured seconds ago. “That's actually pretty funny.” He's still grinning, so she responds by elbowing him in the ribs.

“Stop.”

He laughs, hissing when he brings a hand to rub the area. “Ow.”

She's still wiping her spit off her chin, cheeks suffused with heat and she prays she isn't blushing. “It's not funny.”

“Yeah but the face you made though.” Another puff. Another smile. “Priceless.”

He offers her the cig but she declines it. A mild shrug of his shoulders and then they're descending into silence. It's the whole balcony scene all over again—what with the ocean stretched out before them and the hissing of the water and the wind—except that now they're actually talking, and instead of stars in the sky there's a sunset, and Eren's smoking, and Mikasa's choking, and she just had her own spit running down her chin (she's still embarrassed, by the way), and the veranda that was once before them is now a railing that keeps them from tumbling down to certain death.

“Cigarettes are gross,” she remarks, eyes lingering on the length of his fingers as he brings the cigarette to his mouth, the way his lips curl around the butt, the way he inhales, chest expanding, the wind pressing his shirt to his muscles, two buttons undone at the top, a sliver of tannish skin exposed and a glob of saliva blasting out his mou—

Oh, gross.

“Why do you spit?” She doesn't notice that she's crinkling her nose as she asks this.

“Gets the taste out of your mouth.”

“But why do you smoke if you don't like the taste?”

“I don't know,” he shrugs, flicking the ashes on the ground. “It's just a bad habit by this point, I guess.”

(She loves that. How she can ask him any question and he'll answer it no matter how silly it is.)

(She doesn't admit that she loves it, though.)

(Okay, yes she does.)

(She so does.)

“Gimme.” Mikasa takes the cigarette from his hand, placing it between her lips and slowly—very slowly—sucking in a long, thick haul. It's just as foul as the first time, but at least now she blows it out with some small measure of grace, flashing him a smile to celebrate the accomplishment.

He shakes his head incredulously, the wind blowing his bangs over his eyes. “God, your mom would love this.”

“What, me smoking?” He nods, running a hand through his hair to get the pesky strands out of his face. “Well, she _did_ say you're ruining my life.” She'd meant it as a joke, of course.

But he doesn't laugh.

He doesn't even smile.

“I haven't even talked to you,” he murmurs, propping both forearms on the railing (that's probably not very safe), voice so low she hardly hears him.

“That's what I said,” she croons, poking the slit between his index and middle finger with the butt of the cig until he parts them and slips it into his grasp. He doesn't look at her, but her eyes flitter away from his hands, ripping her gaze off all of the things she really (really, really) wants to marvel at right now. (Lightning bolt veins, little blonde hairs on his forearms, the way his sleeves are cuffed up to his elbows, how rich his skin is with its caramel tone).

The air around them smells of cigarette smoke mixed with sea water, two poignant aromas and yet what her senses capture is the soft smell of him on his clothes. His jacket's like a safety blanket around her, warm and comforting and full of him. It doesn't smell of strong cologne or deodorant like most guys in tuxes tend to smell like, but instead it carries a scent that is both earthy and clean, delicate and musky, mature and yet boyish and it's such an inexplicable mix; like the pages of an old book, a long whiff of rose petal tea and the robust sip of dark coffee all mixed together into one. It's utterly impossible and electrifying to her senses. She would bottle it up and wear it as perfume if she could.

Tightening the coat around her frame, she inquires, “Did you… hear much?”

His eyes are fixed on the sea, teal-greens mimicking the water, deep and limitless and beautiful. The cigarette sits idly between his fingers, wasting away. “Most of it.”

There's a tiny hole in his right earlobe, a piercing he once had back high school that he'd punctured all by himself (for reasons only God knows). She smiles softly at the discovery, reminiscing, voicing aloud, “Like what?”

“Just a lot of… stuff.” The cigarette meets his mouth. Burns. Shrinks. Leaves it. “Like how I'm slime, and poor, and filthy, and disgusting.” Slow release of smoke, wafting out of his snout like a dragon's agitated breath before he finishes, “Something about me being a prostitute's rat.”

Mikasa sighs, hugging herself so that his jacket's wrapped around her completely.

“She wants me to be perfect.” A whisper. Only a breath.

Eren nods. Just nods. “Yep.”

Another sigh, released to the sky, declared to the heavens. In her distress, her brows furrow, her eyes close, so all she sees is the shadow of his image flickering on the surfaces of her eyes: pierced earlobe, veiny hands, caramel skin, sculpted forearms, little blonde hairs.

“I can't stand her anymore,” she vents, hugging herself tighter. “I can't stand anything. I hate college. I hate boys. I hate everything.”

“Ah, teenage angst,” Eren sings, sighing with her. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“Honestly.”

They puff out snickers simultaneously, the wind carrying them away. They're quiet for a moment, until he turns to her, says, “Mikasa.”

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

The corners of her mouth flick upwards. She nods. “Yes, of course.”

He opens his mouth, only for it to hang there for a moment before closing again. He gets rid of the cigarette, crushing it beneath his shoe, turning his entire body to face her and she swallows, dreading, anticipating, waiting for his words.

His question's very simple. “Why are you in that school if you hate it?”

Her answer is too. “I can't throw away my future, Eren.”

“Your future?” he scoffs, and this is precisely what she'd been dreading to hear. “But this isn't even what you want!” She goes to speak, but words keep tumbling out of his mouth so she shuts up, catches every single one of them. “What if you died tomorrow?” Oh, dear. “Would you be content with what you've made of yourself today?”

No answer.

Impatient, he goes on.

“There's so much potential in you, Mikasa. So much! There always has been. You could be _anything_ but you let your mom dictate the way you should live. That's so fucked up. That's such a waste of who you are as a person.” He's shaking his head, she's fretting about, his words flopping out of her hands but crashing into her ears and forcing her to bathe in them. There's that old, passionate Eren again, flitting his hands around and huffing and frowning before adding, “You know what? I may be poor and filthy and whatever else you rich people wanna call me, but at least I have now. Today.” He motions to his surroundings, sun and sky and trees and sea and everything. “This. All this.” His eyes dig into hers—sun and sky and trees and sea and everything present in them. “And I make the best of it. So, _fuck_. At least I have that.”

Her eyes are fixed on the sunset, his lingering on her face, and although she cannot meet them, she finds the courage to answer him anyway.

“I'm not… very good… with expressing my emotions,” she says, smoothing her hair away when the wind blows it over her face. “That's why I choose to be silent most of the time. Because I feel like, when I speak, people don't understand me.”

“I understand you.”

A smile consumes her face.

She fights it.

She fails.

She surrenders.

“I know you do,” she whispers, scratching her arm through his jacket, “but I'm talking about everyone else. They just see what's on the outside, you know? No one really cares enough to reach for what's inside. I can spend my whole life waiting for someone to reach out to me first.”

Eren's eyes are still on her, so she brings herself to look at them, amazed at how he listens to her: with his whole being, clinging to every single word that comes out of her and absorbing it into his soul.

She clears her throat.

“So, anyway… that's why back at the wedding, I decided that even if I embarrassed myself, I wanted to be the first out of the two of us to apologize. Because I feel like… I just did so many things _wrong_.”

“I understand.” And with that, Eren tears his gaze away from her.

She feels as it it rid her of her skin.

Naked, she pauses, preferring the swathe of his eyes on her, mending her convoluted emotions into concrete words. But still, desolate and nervous and unsure, she licks her lips, she continues.

“You know, after I left, I kept asking Armin about you every single day.” Pause. Check his face. He's still not looking at her. Lick lips again. Continue. “He grew so sick of me, I know it. But he never… said too much. About your mom, about your life and how it… He never said it.” Pause. Check his face. He's closed his eyes now. Clear throat. Continue. “I'm… sorry that I pushed you away.” Pause. She can't bring herself to look at him. Internally, she frets. “That's why I've been trying to talk to you these past two weeks. I've made so many mistakes and I'm trying to do things right.” Don't pause. Keep going, keep going, you got this, keep going! “So back at the gazebo when mom was calling Carla a whore I—”

“ _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ ”

Mikasa's spirit fucking somersaults and she jumps so violently she nearly stumbles on her heels. With a hand on her frantic beating heart, she exclaims, “What the heck was that?”

“Do it.”

“What?!”

He turns his head to look at her, smiling like the crazy bloke he is. “Emotional purging,” he calls this. “Sometimes I like to go out here and just scream.”

“Scream?!” She's flabbergasted, shaking her head, blinking profusely. Eren's disposition is an utter contrast to her own, cheery and excited:

“Yup!”

Her hand's still on her chest.

He simpers.

“Doesn't anybody hear you though?”

“Does it _look_ like there's anyone who'll hear me?”

“Uh...” Slowly, Mikasa turns her head to peer over her shoulder, eyes shooting to the chess tables, the chairs, the benches, the rusty drinking fountain. Clearly, people come here.

She looks at Eren.

 _D_ _o it_ , he mouths.

“No.”

“Do it!” he taps her on the arm. She shakes her head. “Come on, Mikasa. You'll feel better!”

“No, Eren, I—“

“Buh-cop!”

What.

The fuck.

Was that.

There's a moment of silence as she stares at him, lips curving into the slightest of frowns, brows furrowing as she drones, “Did you just fucking cluck at me?”

He does it again.

“Stop that!”

“Chicken,” he carols, tapping her on the arm again and again to annoy her. “Chiiiiiicken.”

Mikasa scowls at him, hissing, “Stooooopppppp,” but he doesn't. He keeps tapping her arm, harder, calling her a chicken and she thinks she feels her temple throb. “Eren, I'm gonna kick your butt.”

“Chicken,” he clucks. “Buh-cop!”

“Sto—“

“Buh-buh-buh-buh-cop!”

She starts ridding herself of his jacket, shrugging it off her shoulders and sliding it down her arms before smacking it against his chest and screaming—

“ _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!_ ”

The clucking stops.

(Thank Jesus.)

“Wow, I really do feel better,” she trills, hoisting her hands on her hips. Eren's holding the jacket with a shit-eating grin on his face, wiggling his brows at her as soon as she makes eye contact.

“I told you—“

“ _AAAAAAAAAAAAAA_ _AAAAAAAAA_ _A_ _AAAAA_ _AAA_ _H_ — mmrph!”

“Shhhh!” He cups a hand over her mouth, rapping, “Jesus, okay, people will definitely hear you if you don't stop now.”

Mikasa's too busy laughing her ass off to meet his face, her fingers curving around his hand and peeling it off her mouth. She's cracking up so hard she can barely stand straight, staggering like a drunk before bending over to hold her knees, dropping her head, bellowing.

She hears Eren breathe out a short, nervous chuckle, the awed shake of his head apparent in his tone.

“You're crazy.”

It takes her a moment to recompose herself, snorting and trembling and she doesn't straighten up until he taps her on the back her head with his jacket.

“Ahhhhhhhh,” she smiles, wiping the corners of her mouth. “So are you!”

She doesn't know why he's staring at her cheeks, but his are just as red as she imagines hers to be. He's shaking his head, sighing, “I suppose.”

They stand like that, grinning at each other, Mikasa hiccuping with her little laughs, Eren still shaking his head in utter astonishment, the wind blowing their hairs all over their faces and she starts, “That was—“ but then, suddenly, they hear it.

Thunder.

The low grumbling echoes through the sky like a cry from the gods and they blanch. Both of them. Turning their heads to the forest to find monstrous clouds approaching, so fat and plump rain they're nearly as murky as Mikasa's dark hair. The wind picks up to ungodly speeds, nearly lifting Mikasa's skirt right up and Eren covers her with the jacket, stopping it from blowing open before they both look at one another and breathe out a simultaneous—

“Fuck.”

 

* * *

 

The sky groans in its agony.

Clouds crash and stumble over each other. Grumbling peevishly. Staggering along. Plodding their way through the sky. Crying.

Drops of their tears fall down in sheepish spurts. First it's a few shy splats. One. Two. Three. Four. Then they're countless. A blanket of rain covers the world, trapping both Eren and Mikasa under its pelting shadow. The two of them race through the forest like a pair of lunatics, damp and squealing, Mikasa's heels stabbing the gravel path a few times and nearly tripping her over.

Eren holds her hand.

They run together.

Her laughter bursts like a thunder clap behind him, breathless and excited, interrupted by a yelp every time she nearly trips over her heels and falls. Halfway through, once his home is within view, he feels her squeeze his hand reassuringly. In the rain, he pretends not to feel it, even as a bolt of lightning courses through him from her touch.

They gallop up the steps and blast through the front door and into safety. Once inside, they struggle to catch their breaths, wheezing and heaving with their backs pressed to the wall, the front door thrown hastily shut between them. The rain outside grows furious, battering everything around, rattling the windows and the walls and the ceiling and the entire cabin trembles with the sky's worsening cries.

Eren opens his eyes, panting, staring up at the ceiling of his own home. He hears Mikasa's little puffs and huffs beside him, reminding him she's there. So, slowly, he trails his vision over to the girl that stands nearby.

She's soaking wet.

They both are.

His shirt clings to his body as a sopping, see-through mess; muscles refined and showing, water seeping all the way down into his pants—which is pretty fucking uncomfortable. His hair sticks to his forehead, hers sticks to her lips and face, rosy satin dress adhering to her body, pasted to her frame—also a sopping, see-through mess. He watches the way her chest bloats and deflates with every breath, her pallid skin prickled over with goosebumps and shivering from the cold. Tears of rain trickle down her neck, her shoulders, the smooth valley between her breasts. He can see the outline of their peaks perfectly, her nipples perked and raised, buds protruding from beneath the fabric and she's got her eyes closed, she's not looking at him, so he doesn't look away.

“Mikasa.”

Her name escapes him before he can capture it and shove it back inside his mouth.

It makes her open her eyes.

It makes them meet him.

His lips part to say more but some drops of water fall off his hair and onto his eyelashes, making him go momentarily blind as he blinks them away. Her breathing, the rain, the thoughts that spur outrage in his brain—it's all he hears right now. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, feeling her gaze on him.

He's not ready when he opens his eyes again to look at her. He's not ready and yet he braves:

“What did I do?”

A pause.

A startled blink.

“What did I do? What did I do so wrong?”

“Nothing, Eren,” she whispers, her back glued the wall, chin pressed to her shoulder. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Then why did they hate me so much?”

Silence.

“Why did your parents hate me?”

Silence.

So much silence.

She doesn't respond.

“It's not fair. We could've made a life together. We could've… Things could've been so great. Things could've been so great between us.”

Mikasa closes her eyes, resting her head on the wall, sighing. “I know.”

Eren watches her, clenching his jaw, water dripping down his forearms and hands and face and covering him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

It hurts.

“They took you away from me.” His voice is quiet, the eerie stillness of time that he keeps feeling around her. “It's just not fair. You said you never wanted to see me again. Do you have any idea how bad that hurt? It's been killing me for years.”

“I was scared, Eren,” is what she says. He just shakes his head and scoffs at her.

“Scared of what, Mikasa?”

“Of everything. Of mom, you, of Daddy's sickness and how it—”

“My mom was sick too!”

“I know but—“

“You don't have an excuse, okay? You left. You left for a school you never even wanted to go to when I'd given you the option to stay with me.”

Mikasa opens her eyes, staring straight ahead, her features aligning into that expression of hers that shows nothing, no emotion, but he knows she feels so much.

She doesn't speak.

He hates that.

His chest's starting to hurt, cracking, swelling, tearing, adrenaline pumping into his veins and they're both still dripping all over the floor, a pair of rain-drenched fools breathing and panting and everything hurts him, everything hurts. He's bleeding all over the place. He's splitting open and pouring out something raw.

“You rejected me,” he croaks, bleeding out completely. “After all those years, you left me to hang dry like nothing. Tell me how that's fair. Tell me how it makes any fucking sense because I haven't been able to wrap my head around it.”

“Eren...” Her voice is so hushed it barely rises over the pitter-pattering of the rain. “It was the right thing to do.”

He guffaws, perhaps a bit louder than what he'd intended. “Yeah. Okay. You keep telling yourself that.”

And there is it again, that blank expression of hers—only now, a crease between her brows has breached the flawless composure of her face, a frown has settled over her them, an acerbic scowl has marred her meek lips.

“Damn it, Eren,” she hisses, grinding her eyes shut. “I'm _really_ trying here but you're making things so damn hard.”

“Really?” His voice defies him, rising a nuance above what he prefers. “How?”

“You just—!”

“Because I'm being honest? It's the truth! You're a coward, Mikasa. A coward.”

Her expression is aghast. “A coward?” she repeats, holding a hand to her chest. “ _I'm_ a coward?”

“Yes.”

She presses her lips together, testing him. “How am I a coward, Eren?”

“You ran.”

“That's not true.”

“Yes it is,” he berates, watching the ways her shoulders stiffen and her hands ball into fists. His heart feels like it's about to burst at any second, breaking and oozing, anger boiling up inside him and bubbling up to his head, controlling him, all the confusion he's harbored since she left him turning into rage. “You ran because you couldn't handle letting your parents down. You couldn't handle not being their perfect little princess. You couldn't handle the fact that I was dirt fucking poor!”

She gasps, wounded. “How could— That's not true!”

“It is!”

“No, it's—!” She throws a hand over her face, bumping the back of her head against the wall and groaning. “God, you're so insensitive sometimes, I hate it.”

“Then why? Why'd you go?” She doesn't answer him. She just shakes her head again and again. “You see? Coward.”

“You know what, Eren?” She whips her neck to look at him, strands of her drenched hair sticking to her cheek and she vapes, “How about you put yourself in my shoes?” He scoffs cruelly, smiling, tipping her off the edge. “I know they didn't like you because of the money situation but that never mattered to me, and you know that.” He opens his mouth—she cuts him off quick. Her voice rises over his, unusually demanding. “No, no. Shut up. Let me talk. Just please, Eren for once, shut up.”

He glares at her, lips sealed tight together.

She continues, despite his expression.

“I swear those few years we spent together were some of the best of my entire life. Stop acting like they meant nothing to me because that's not true! You've been so busy dwelling in your own self-pity that you've failed to realize that I've been hurting just as much as you have.” He laughs, shaking his head, smiling again and Mikasa's cheeks are turning ruddy with fury. “I have! I have! Stop laughing at me, I'm telling you the truth.”

The way her voice cracks at the end makes his eyes shoot to her face.

Shit.

Please.

No.

Don't cry.

“And you know what?” To his horror, tears are pooling in her eyes. He hates it. He hates it when she cries, he hates it so much— _idiot, idiot, idiot, look at what you've done!_ “Being apart has been hell for me. I thought I could see your face everywhere, Eren. Hear your voice. Even your smell followed me around and for years it's driven me crazy. I didn't leave because I wanted to. I swear on everything I am: I didn't.” She shakes her head, wiping the corners of her eyes— _don't cry, don't cry, please, please don't cry_. “I'm not a coward, okay? I'm not. I came back here just to see you. I didn't even care about my own best friend's wedding. Do you know how messed up that is? I had to see you. I _needed_ to. I can't live knowing that there's still so much we need to make right. You're… You're like…” She stops, panting, staring down at his feet, breathing hard from everything she's telling him and he's so appalled that she's even pouring out this much. Her eyes are heavy, their weight holds them to the ground. She closes them, taking a deep breath, gushing out to finalize: “You're like this breath of fresh air in the monotony of my patented life and I just can't live without you. I can't, I can't. I can't.”

_Breath of fresh air._

He blinks.

_Monotony of my patented life_

He gapes.

_I just can't live without you._

He's frozen.

_I can't._

Taking off one of her heels: “And I am not”—she throws it at him—“a fucking coward!”

The thing hits him in the arm, but he's too numb to feel it. He winces, taking it, half-processing how it feels in his hand—real. She's real. Mikasa's real. His eyes dart down to stare at it, seeing how tiny it is, how tiny her feet are, how tiny he remembers everything about her being and yet she's so grand and overwhelming and her heavy breaths in front of him remind him she's alive, she's here, she may not be his anymore but she's here and damn it he has her, he _has_ her, she's here with him and he can't let her escape, not again, he has to do something. Something. Do something, Eren. Anything!

“Do you love me?”

The question takes them both off guard. She looks at him. Her eyes look exhausted, like they're ready to surrender into tears. She's quiet for a moment, so he asks her again—louder this time.

“Do you still love me, Mikasa?”

There's a drizzle in her gaze, drenching him even more when damp, swimming orbs stare at him. She answers with all the honestly in the world.

“Yes.” A flash of white. “Of course I do.” A thunder clap.

Pelting, pelting, pelting rain.

“Okay.”

The thud of her heel meeting the floor and then—

He yanks her by the arm and brings her to him, cradling her face in his hands and smashing their lips together as Mikasa gives a noise of surprise. He can feel her gasp on his lips, but it dissolves into his mouth as soon as she responds, dropping his jacket on the floor to clutch his wrists, her nails digging into his skin and she's kissing back just as fervently, with just as much. The storm outside is intense, a symphony of broken thunder and pounding rain as their frigid lips mesh and fuse together, moving perfectly in sync, two years of their lives melting down to nothing until all they can taste is the tears and longing and wasted time apart.

She's only got one shoe on, so she stumbles slightly when he guides her steps backwards and her lower back meets something sharp, mind barely processing that it's a counter top before he's grabbing her waist and lifting her off her feet and then she's sitting on it. Their mouths seek each other frantically, meeting with clacks of teeth and clashing noses and everything is messy but their hearts beat out of their chests and he feels her everywhere, everywhere, everywhere and it not longer even hurts.

It doesn't hurt.

She fuels him.

Her hands grow ravenous, roving up his chest, his clinging desperately to her face and holding tight so that she never leaves him again. They break away, gasping for air, foreheads and noses touching and everything about her feels so amazing, looks so amazing, he's not even angry anymore and neither is she because her legs straddle his hips and then _she's_ the one who holds him, she's the one to grab him by the collar and pull him in to kiss him like her life depends on it, inhaling deeply and it's as if she's trying to absorb his essence into her own.

She breathes through him. He breathes through her. They live off each other's oxygen and all that fills his lungs is Mikasa, all that fills hers is Eren, all they breathe is one another and they're left wondering how the fuck they've even managed to survive being apart for so long.

He glides his tongue over her lips, tasting her familiar sweetness and it's so intoxicating he has to groan, and then she's parting them and he tastes smoke, tastes the traces of himself he's left inside her. She throws her arms around his neck, moaning into his mouth when his tongue delves even deeper, and something wild stirs at the pit of his gut, rattling and rattling like an animal stuck in a cage fighting to break free.

His hands are feeling up her legs, bunching the skirt, burning her and she's so cold but she's so warm and she's so smooth but she's prickly with goosebumps and she's scared, they're bothsoscared, but she's so so so beautiful it kills him that she's no longer his. Her shoe falls off her foot and lands on the floor with a wooden _thump_ , and then she's wrapping her legs around him, stretching her neck and sighing as he scathes her with his mouth, trailing a scorching flow of kisses down her jaw, her ear, her neck, pulling down the straps of her dress to kiss her shoulder.

She gasps and shudders when his teeth nip her collarbones, shaky hands sifting through his dripping hair, fingers tangling in the strands and then he's kissing his way back up her face, capturing her mouth with his and claiming her. She hums softly, approvingly, and everything about her feels so real—too real. He has to take a second to pull back and admire her, to relish in the feeling of her hands moving up and down his chest, scratching him, wanting him, parting his shirt open and he's not even aware of when she'd undone the buttons all by herself. He runs his fingers down her shoulder blades, over the swells of her half-exposed breasts, up her neck and then down the ridges of her spine, counting every little notch before he's lifting her skirt to grab her ass lewdly, making her moan into his mouth again and _god_ everything about her drives him insane. It's all reminiscent of the good old days when he pulls her hips to his and bucks into her, making her hiss as he sneaks a hand down the front of her panties to feel her through her clothes. She's hanging by the edge, not even trying to hold back and something tells him that perhaps she's just as desperate as he is, that this is actually unlike anything they've ever done before, that they both thirst for something in each other they didn't even know they possessed. Two years have made them hungry. Too hungry.

They're going blind.

She's whining into him again while he touches her, pinching his lower lip between her teeth, pulling it back, and then he feels her hands fumbling with his belt, hears the dull clinking of the buckle, the popping of the button, the hasty undoing of his zipper and then her hand dips past the waistband of his boxers until she finds him, grips tight, and now he's the one who's whining into her, giving in to her touch as she kisses his chin, his cheek, his temple and she's breathing hard against him, feeling his length, leaving him at her mercy. She gives a firm squeeze at the base, making his jaw go slack and eyes roll to the back of his head and then her lips are on his adam's apple, whimpering with need when they meet his mouth again.

They don't speak a word.

They can't.

Like if they share thoughts via some sort of telepathy, he tugs her underwear to one side and she pulls his pants down low enough to free him, guiding him to her entrance and before either of them know it she's got her arms snaked around his shoulders, her heart beating right next to his and then she's gasping, he's pushing, failing to stifle back a moan when her slick warmth envelops him and Mikasa's just as raptured, just as lost, crying out and fisting a hand in his hair as he goes in deeper, deeper, filling her inch by inch then all at once.

She holds on to him with all her might, pulling him back with her once he's fully sheathed inside her, his one hand splayed open on her lower back, the other landing on the counter top to keep them both from falling over.

There's the puffing and huffing of their uneven breaths, and then they're both speechless, they're both stunned, the _splat, splat_ , _splat_ of the water that drips off their skin and clothes and hair landing on the counter top proclaiming what they've just done. He feels her legs trembling around him, knees shaking as if even her bones are cold. Her chest is flush against his and their skins are wet and sticking together. It's funny, because he's still inside her and yet he pulls back to look at her in the eyes and ask, “Are you sure?”

Mikasa gapes at him for a moment before glancing down to where they're connected, blushing, her eyes closing and she's got her lip pinched between her teeth, her chin crinkling as she says, “I think it's a little late to ask me that.”

He snickers.

She snorts.

They both start laughing, his titters pressed to her shoulder, her quiet giggles pressed to her fist. She feels his breath on her when he whispers, “Yeah, but... we're on my counter top,” and she flushes at the declaration, at the erotic reality of it all. His mouth climbs up to the crook of her neck, making her shiver when he speaks into the ticklish spot. “Are you sure you want to… I mean, here?”

“Hmm.” She's quiet for a moment, sighing, his hardness still inside her and everything about this just makes her want to laugh again. He pulls back far enough to look at her, eyes falling down to her chest, reveling in the pink blush of her right nipple peeking out over the lowered neckline of her dress. “You're right,” she says, rubbing a thumb over his chin to clean off some smeared lipstick. “We should just— Let's do this the right way.”

Eren nods, wondering if he should pull out of her or what, waiting for her instructions but her thumb's still struggling to wipe his chin clean so she gives up and grabs his face, pecks him on the lips, feels him smiling halfway into it when she pecks him twice more, and then she's smiling too.

“Listen to me,” she breathes, lips still on his. “This is what you're going to do.”

He moves back enough to look at her, heart bursting in his chest as he marvels at her face, adoring the sight of her lipstick smudged all over her mouth, of the rain running down her neck and chest and her pebbled peaks as she leans back and rests her hands behind her and lets him look at them: the one fully exposed now from her shifting around, the other poking out under the satin fabric and she feels so good and tight around him that all he wants to do is move, just fuck her right there on the counter top because he's so broken and needy it's not even funny.

But he behaves, he waits, she beckons with her index finger for him to come closer so he does and she kisses him for it. Her lips pressed to his right ear, she instructs him.

“You're going to take my clothes off.” She kisses his left one. “Carry me to your bed.” His nose. “Then make love to me” Finally, his mouth. “Okay?”

“'Kay.”

And they both start laughing again.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it. The story’s finally come to an end. I’m having a really hard time letting this Eren go, but I’m happy to finally bring this story to an end and rip it off me, although I don’t think I’ll ever get over it tbh. I wrote it for someone very special and I hope that she and all of you like this last installment. My lovely friend cupofdaydream made a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/cupofdaydream/drizzle) for this fic, so listen to it if you’d like. It’s very lovely. Thank you for reading, and I’ll see you all again soon! (I used this gorgeous [fanart](http://lolakasa.tumblr.com/post/120648924779/is-disgusted-with-self) as inspiration for this chap. Please be sure to show the artist your appreciation ♥ ). My tumblr is natiwati.tumblr.com for all of those who would like to reach me there. Enjoy. 
> 
> Warnings: Explicit smut.

* * *

 

 

There are a few things Eren Jaeger has never been able to explain in his life:

1\. The economic system.

2\. How Armin's voice is capable of reaching such a high, shrilling pitch (seriously, what the fuck).

And finally, 3. How a human being could possibly be this irrefutably, irrevocably, inexplicably perfect.

She's perfect.

Perfect.

It blows him away.

Breathless, he traces the contours of her body, marveling at every slope, every peak, every dip, and nook and cranny. He gets lost in them, in the familiarity of her scent on his skin and bed, in the startling grace of the curves of her lips as she smiles at him, the delicate balance she manifests with every whisper, every praise, every granted permission for him to venture farther.

Her skin prickles where he touches her, hairs that come alive to stand on point.  

His does too, relishing in the aftermath of her presence, buzzing with emotions that awaken from a two-year-long repose.

Their garments litter the cabin floor, squelching thuds of damp clothing that fall off their incarcerated skins, freeing them in hapless bouts of giggles and mawkish chortles when she fails to tug his legs out of his pants on the first attempt. The only thing left now is her underwear, and his, barriers of sorts that stand between them as they sit facing one another on his bed.  _Make love to me_ , she'd told him, a grown woman demanding his submission. But now she sits, a girl, simpering with her legs hugged tight against her, staring at him through damp strings of raven hair, her small chin crinkling as she laughs, perched like a stone atop her knees, her face a flawless statue.

“What?” he asks her, scoffing at her quiet snorts.

“Nothing,” she breathes, shaking her head, the rain washing down the window beside them dancing along her skin in the form of shadows. Her naked chest hides behind her folded legs, and he imagines that his must exhibit the same strange dance of ghosts laving down his body, covering him like a shower he'll never actually feel. Her features soften ever so slightly, and when he hears it, “Just looking at you, that's all”, he knows he's safe.

Eren watches the lull of her lids as she blinks, tucking her curls behind her ears, her eyelashes moist and clumped together with tears and rain. Her diamond earrings shimmer in the dusky atmosphere, the coldness of the room thawing with the warm touch of his hand upon her chalky skin, fingertips running along the ridges of her knuckles. Her hands are adjoined at her shins, and he places his own by her feet on the mattress to lean forward and kiss one of the band-aids on her knees before, carefully, moving on to kiss the other. Her small breaths float around him, flaccid puffs of air he drinks up like water. She doesn't say anything, neither does he, but he knows what they're both thinking of how he used to do this.

Eren used to do this all the time.

He's lost count of the bruises he's had to kiss away, of all the pecks that were pressed to her cheeks to make her smile, to erase the ghostly trails of her tears and replace them with laughter. But this, right now, is very different. Not only because she's actually bled this time and because he's kissing wounds instead of contusions, but because back then, he'd had the liberty of calling her his, of counting her sleepy breaths beside him 'til he fell asleep, of knowing that when he awoke later on that morning, she'd be there. She'd stay there. She'd never go. He knows now—they  _both_ know now—that it's not like this anymore. Tomorrow comes with uncertainty. It comes with the knowledge that, in the eyes of the world, they are unfit for one another. Even if their corners do fit perfectly together; even if their differences do fuse in harmony and bind them as one, they're not meant to be for the simple fact that society says so.

It's a thought that boils at the back of their minds but that's promptly silenced by the calamity of the storm outside when the tip of his nose bumps the pointy tip of hers, and he hears her laugh again, and he knows, above all else, that he loves her.

“You're tickling me,” she whispers, wiggling her toes by his hands. He peers down at them, smirking, tracing them with his finger, feeling how tiny they are, how cold to the touch much like the rest of her. He thinks of how every inch of her is perfect, from the points of her eyelashes to the tips of her toes, when suddenly he feels one of her hands digging through his rain-soaked hair, coaxing him to lift his head and look at her.

Wordlessly, they stare at one another. The air fills with the sound of their placid breaths, the roaring booms of trifling clouds, the drumming of rain, all different whispers of life. She cradles the side of his face in her hand, tracing his bottom lip with her finger, mouthing something he doesn't understand before smiling.

“What are you whispering to yourself?” he asks her, enchanted by the dainty glow in her eyes.

“Nothing,” it's a breath, followed by a string of stronger words. “You're so handsome, Eren. I feel like I'm looking at you for the first time.”

She's still holding his face, tilting hers to the side so that her cheek presses against her knee cap. Their voices are quiet, nearly trampled by the thundering and pounding taking place outside. And yet, always, they hear each other over everything.

His fingers pull a strand of hair that has fallen over her face behind her ear, and he watches the way her eyes close at the contact, how her lashes are so long they sit like brush strokes on her cheeks. His voice is warm, wafting out of him like steam.

“I haven't changed at all.”

She's still got her eyes closed. She's still holding his face. She's not letting him go.

“No,” she says, “you haven't.”

Eren turns his mouth to kiss the palm of her hand, humming, and they stay like that for a while, until she opens her eyes and breathes, “You're beautiful,” so soft it barely cuts through the space between them to reach him. He turns his face to look at her, whispering back, “So are you.”

The smile she gives him is so bright that her eyes disappear into her face. And he can't help it. He smiles too. A small peck to her chin and then he sits back on his side of the bed again, reaching out a hand, much like how he'd done the day he'd helped her out of the car, only now to bring her to him.

“Come here.”

On her face is something serious, something he doesn't quite understand. She's still for a moment, watching him, turning her head so that her eyes peek up over her knee caps. Thoughts whirl in her mind, he knows, but he can only imagine them. In the silence, the sound of sheets rustling underneath her rises against the chill, and soon she's taking his hand and allowing it pull her to him until she's sitting on his lap and he's flinging her arms around his neck, letting them hang limply and spill over his back and shoulders. His hands frame her hips as his eyes venture up her naked torso, absorbing every miniscule detail while his fingertips glide up her waist, her breasts, feeling her skin before he grabs the side of her face and flicks his eyes up to meet hers.

“I'm sorry,” he utters, running his thumb over the arch of her brow, “for the shit I said.”

“Don't apologize.”

“But I was such an ass. I called you a c—“

“Shhh.” She grabs both sides of his face and shushes him, brushing their lips together, moving hers from side to side so that it tickles his. “Shhh, shhh, shhh.”

He feels her breath on his skin, every  _shhh_  leaving her mouth caressing his gently. He wants to reach out his tongue, capture them, savor anything and everything she breathes. She smells pure and delicious, like rain and cigarettes and perfume. Like everything he wants her to smell like. Cheery. Content.

Beautiful.

“Shhhh, Eren. Quiet, quiet…”

Shh...

Shhhh…

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump._

Quiet.

He runs a hand through her hair, dripping locks gliding through his fingers, drops of water falling down the sides of her face, the slopes of her neck, the curve of her back. Their noses touch.  _Ba-dump_. Their hearts beat faster.  _Ba-dump._ Nobody can ever take her away from him again.

“Mikasa,” he murmurs against her lips, swallowing her smell, loving how her name feels on his tongue and forms around his lips—like he was born merely to pronounce it. She hums questioningly, heavy-lidded eyes foggy with something indescribable and he feels as if he could dive into them and swim forever.

He swipes his thumb over one of her lids, coaxing her eyes to draw shut like flowers lost in slumber. “I love you,” he whispers to her mouth, closing his own eyes, feeling her breathe against him. “I love you so much.”

Her nails scratch the back of his head, grazing the nape of his neck before she opens her eyes to look deep into his and respond, “I know that, silly.”

He smiles.

She smiles.

Everything's alright.

The violence outside contrasts the quiet bliss they share within his humble home. The loud cries of thunder juxtapose the careful way she leans in to kiss him: first his upper lip, then his lower; feather-like busses that barely touch his skin—like the light caress of fine rain drops, barely there, yet omnipresent. She parts her lips against his slowly, luring him to follow along, and it's an odd kiss. They don't press their lips together, instead mirror each other's mouths tentatively, as if all of his actions were a mere reflection of her own and her every inhale elicited an exhale out of him, and they breathe through each other like that for a moment, until her tongue peeks out to greet his, and then they both snigger a breath.

As their mouths resume their peculiar dance, his fingers graze the back of her neck, where he can feel the first small bump of her spine, the skin there is icy and moist. They draw a line all the way down her spine, whence he slips his hands down to cup her rear and hears her hum appreciatively, the last few  _mmm_ 's taking flight to a glorious giggle and there's honestly no greater sound in the entire world; nothing as rich, as sweet, as wonderful as her laughter.

She kisses him right once his hands are roaming up her stomach—but with no tongue this time. Just lips. Just lips and her breath mixing with his and his palms going flat against her tummy and then up and up and up until they're cupping both her breasts.

The corner of her mouth splits into a wry smile, her hips shifting around on his lap before she gives a long, happy sigh. Her breath hits him square in the face, warm and stale and intoxicating. He watches the way her eyes fall shut as he feels her, thumbs drawing slow, steady circles on her nipples, their nubs hard already from the cold but she shivers in a whole new way, losing to the sensations he's sending through her system. Her cheeks turn such a pretty shade of pink that he can't help it when he leans in to kiss them. The sight of her rosy plush disappearing into her mouth is so endearing, he teases her a  bit more just to see her bite her lip longer. The sight of her lips parting and breath quivering between them is so hypnotizing—he loves it, he loves it all so much.

Her arms are still draped around his neck, one hand resting idly on his shoulder as the other cards through his hair. She's not aware of how he watches her, admiring every line, every shadow, every aspect of her gorgeous face. After a moment, he closes the gap between them to lave his lips on her cheek, letting them melt down her jawline, ooze down her neck, kiss her collarbone as his hands grope her breasts and bring one up to his mouth.

The heat of his tongue on her skin makes her gasp. He suckles the soft curve hard enough to mark her but her every breath is laced with approval, the gloom of nightfall burgeoning within the cabin, denigrating their visions so that their senses guide the way. His lips are back on her neck when he slips a hand down the front of her panties to feel her. Another gasp from her mouth flares on his cheek, soft and startled, his nose buried in the crook of her neck when he mumbles if it's okay.

She doesn't answer him, just nods and feels her legs jolt when his fingers rub her through the cloth. Both her hands are in his hair now and she wants to feel him everywhere, all at once, wrapped up tight around her so that there's no escape, no ripping him off her. She tells him this by joining their lips and holding her entire self against him, forcing him to dwindle back down on the bed until his back is on the mattress, her breasts flat against his chest, porcelain legs straddling his hips and she starts to rock hers slowly against him, her faint pants pressed to his chin as the ends of her hair tickle his face, dripping water on his features like beads of morning dew rolling off of flower petals and landing on his skin.

She's a storm of her own, drenching him as their breathing deepens and blends. He admires the way she sighs, rolling her hips, stimulating their sexes through the barriers of clothes before he grabs her ass and grinds his hips up to meet her. And he's patient, so patient, but the way the hardened points of her breasts keep brushing his chest as she whines quietly drives him insane.

He grips her waist and flips her over so that she's on her back, an easy feud for dominance he conquers when she throws her arms around her head in full surrender, sparkling eyes hooded and dark with lust as he looms over her, smoothing her hair away from her face with one hand, gliding his fingertips down her stomach with the other. Her muscles tense beneath his touch, quaking in anticipation before he touches her where she wants him most. He never takes his eyes off her, burning her image into his mind as he slips two fingers into her core and she moans for him; fluttering lids going shut, her body twisting in the darkness.

He runs his tongue over her peaks, taking his time to caress her with his lips before taking a bud into his mouth and sucking hard. Her back arches and he can practically feel the mewl that travels up her body before it escapes through her throat as his fingers start to move in her. He's not even aware of how long he stays like that, with his head swimming and her little sighs making him feel faint and woozy, because time diminishes layer by layer until finally it disappears. She feels so infinite, hot and damp around his thrusting fingers, perked and pebbled against his tongue. He's lapping at her other nipple, tugging and then letting it snap back into place when she pulls lightly on his hair to make him look at her.

She doesn't say a word, but he's known her long enough to read the look she's giving him. He curls his fingers inside her just to see the face she makes, to perish in the beauty of her features contorting, of a gasp parting her lips before he retrieves his hand and resumes his quest down her centerfold, passing his tongue over her ribs, her belly, biting her hip and making her jump. She titters softly, throwing an arm over her face to hide her blush and he thinks of how amazing she is, of how stupid he's been these past few weeks for trying to ignore her, of what a damn fool he is. Just look at her. There's no way he'd ever manage to free himself of her constant grip on him. It's a blessing. It's a curse.

Damned, he hooks his fingers on the elastic band of her panties and peers up at her, wetting his lips.

“These gotta go.”

She nods, ruddy and breathless.

“I agree.”

His hands take their time rolling the flimsy fabric down her legs, lips kissing every inch of skin on the way down before he's discarding them to the side and sitting back to look at her. The rain still crawls down her body in artificial waves, but the day's grown darker—he can hardly see her face—so he takes this as his chance to reach over the nightstand and search for a match to light the gas lamp by the end of the bed.

“Eren,” she queries once his back is to her, her eyes tracing every line of muscle on his skin, admiring the broadness of his shoulders, and he doesn't see the way she smiles to herself, satisfied. “What are you doing?”

“It's dark.”

Nudging one of the dimples on the small of his back with her toe: “So?”

“I want to see you.”

He can hear her scoff behind him, “Eren...” but she says no more. She's probably rolling her eyes at him like she always does when he insists on things being perfect. He's so conscientious, meticulous of their time together—and it's funny because he's usually such an impulsive, whimsical being, and yet he's so careful when it comes to her, so precise.

It doesn't take him long to succeed in producing a steady flame, but Mikasa's still impatient, poking his butt with her foot, giggling when he swats her away and tells her to  _stop it_. The soles of her feet are flat on his back by the time the cabin grows dim with a halo of yellowish light, specifically covering the spaces around them, every other corner of his home submerged darkness, illuminated only by a few occasional flashes of lightning bursting in from the un-curtained windows. He feels her toes wiggling on his back as he sets the gas lamp on the table, pulling a tiny snort out of him but then they're gone, the sheets rustling behind him as she shifts around on the bed. There's scarcely any light except for the gas lamp, the fading gray outside, and Mikasa's incandescent smile when he turns around to find her legs splayed wide open, waiting for him, her hand guiding his eyes to her center when she reaches down to touch herself.

His mouth drops open, eyeballs nearly bulging out of his face and he literally has to sit back on his heels and take a second to breathe.

“God,” he heaves, holding a hand to his heart. “You're too much.”

Instantly, her sultry facade crumbles. She starts laughing, covering her face with both her hands, snapping her legs shut and wriggling around with her cheeks burning bright red and she looks, quite honestly, like a drunk. Eren can't help his smirk.

“Well, aren't you cute?”

“I'm naked!” She says it like it's the funniest joke, chortling and snorting. And he supposes that in some ways, it is. The last thing he ever expected to come of this day was this: her lying nude on his bed, wriggling around childishly and making him smile.

“Why are you so giggly?”

“Because your face! It's funny.”

He narrows his eyes, clutching her shins to make her hold still. “Are you sure you didn't drink tonight?”

It takes her a moment to stop giggling and answer him. “Not an ounce.”

“Nah,” he shakes his head, pressing his lips to one of the band-aids. “I think you're lying to me.”

She shakes hers, drawing a small 'x' over her chest with her index finger. “Cross my heart.”

“Mmm,” his callused palms skim up her thighs, pulling them apart slowly, slowly, until she's spread open and he's testing her expression, flicking his eyes down to her core then back up at her, “'kay.”

She bites her lip as he nuzzles her skin with his nose, planting hot, open mouthed kisses up her inner thighs and she simpers when he hums because he's wanted for so long to do this, to lose himself on every expanse of her skin. His mouth meets the cradle of her hips and her lips part in anticipation, air escaping her in an outward gasp, chest imploding with the desire—the  _need_ —to feel him and she moans loudly at the sudden intrusion of his tongue, an urgent hand flying down to hold the back of his head and he feels a bright twinge of pride at knowing this is literally her mother's worst fucking nightmare.

He revels in the idea, rebelliously swiping his tongue in one long stroke so that he takes her in completely, hears her keen, savors all of her. She tastes musky and salty and he can't get enough. He licks her up until she's sifting her fingers through his hair and bucking her hips to heighten the friction before gasping, “Eren,” tugging at a fistful of bistre strands, “please.” He groans into her when she tugs harder, making her hiss, driving her crazy. She tries to speak but words stray, turning into helpless whimpers and he can tell she's balling up a fist over her mouth because they sound strained and stifled.

He revels in the tell tales of her body vibrating through her as she tries to hold everything in and clamps his head between her thighs because he knows that there's no other man who gets her like this, only him, no one else, not ever. Intent on driving her to her peak, he keeps on going, but a strangled, “S-stop,” is her avastand he lifts his head to peer up at her from between her legs.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not like this,” she tells him, raven hair splayed around her head like a halo. Her chest rises and falls rapidly with her stuttered, “I want you. Now. Inside me.”

The rest of his clothes is off him in a flash.

Her eyes weigh heavily on him as he undresses—and she doesn't giggle or smile anymore. She's serious. Watching him. Breathing between her parted lips. Her skin emits a soft, ethereal glow in the light and every ounce of him throbs and thirsts to feel her, all of her, latched onto his bones and never letting go.  

He goes to crawl over her body, kissing one of her knees in the process, “I'm not letting her hurt you anymore,” kissing the other one as well. But Mikasa doesn't reply. She waits for him to plant some quick pecks up her stomach, a few more deliberately peppered on her cheek as he pours his love on the place her mother had attacked her, ghosting his lips over the smoothness of her skin before licking her and she wants to laugh but she's too impatient, too greedy. Her hand slinks down and grips his hardness firmly, making his hips jerk and his mouth snap open as he gasps against her skin.

“Hurry.” Her voice dissipates into the air, thin and hasty. “Hurry, please.”

He doesn't bother questioning her haste—he's just as lost as she is. Finally, he places himself at her entrance, teasingly brushing his tip along her folds before holding it against her clit and then dragging it back down her apex as her whole body trembles with need. He doesn't admit it, but he thinks he feels himself shaking too.

He can't help it when he questions, more out of habit than anything else, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Her onyx orbs are dazzling, bright and full of love. “Yes, of course.”

He runs his fingers down her centerfold, admiring the rise and fall of her tummy before reaching down to touch her between her legs. She's dripping. He closes his eyes, musters what little else is left of his self-control to test her.

“You're sure you want me.”

“Yes.”

“Me.”

“You. Only you.”

“I'll have to warn you,” he croons, nipping her jaw. “I'm not good news.”

“Oh-ho,” he can hear her smile in her voice, the sudden catch in her breathing because of how he's touching her. “Is that so?”

“Yea-up. I'm a bad guy.”

She squints her eyes at the ceiling, the sound of rain mixing with her words and creating something tremendously beautiful.

“I don't believe you.”

He scoffs into the crook of her neck, inhaling her unique scent, moving his fingers up her body to spread her moisture on her skin. “It's true,” he breathes, his bangs sticking to her forehead, hers sticking to his. Her breath hitches when his fingers return to her center, moving in leisured strokes. “I'm nothing. You deserve better than a lonesome prostitute’s rat.”

“Don't say that, Eren.”

“It's true.” His tone is sullen, a heart-broken sob against her shoulder when he wilts his head in melodramatic shame—she smiles, slapping him upside the back of his head. “My lack of money will ruin your life forever, Mikasa. You should purge yourself of my pettiness and pursue men on your turf.”

She chuckles, turning her head to kiss his temple. “Such as?”

“Men with futures. Careers. You know...” his lips align with hers again, eyes fixed on her benevolent expression. “Guys who aren't lazy.”

“Hmm, lazy…?” she reaches down for his hand before placing it on her chest, a lithe fingertip tracing the length of his shaft and he fails in negating his reaction, heaving out a pant when she grabs a hold of him and starts to rub his tip along her core. “But...” she gasps softly, closing her eyes when he meets her sensitive spot, “you know…” her breaths grow ragged, matching his, “I  _love_  lazy.”

He's straining to hold still, to not give in to the urge of bucking his hips as soon as she holds him at her entrance, hesitating for a second before guiding him back up. He moves his hand up from her breast to touch her lips, mind utterly addled and yet he manages to speak.

“I'll tarnish you, Mikasa.”

This silences her.

She's quiet for a moment, eyeing him sternly before he watches the tips of his fingers vanish into her mouth. He can feel her tongue as she sucks and tastes herself on them, her grip on him down low tightening and fuck, fuck,  _fuck,_  he's about to lose his shit.

“I can live with that,” she quips, smirking at the expression on his face when a thread of saliva stretches between his fingers and her mouth. She gives his length a long, arduous pump and he hisses, sucking in a breath between his teeth as she does it again— _slower_ —the expression on his face going pained and he knows she's enjoying it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he heaves on her chest. “You're crazy.”

“So are you.”

“I…” he moans when her thumb presses down on his tip, smearing the bead of pre-come that's leaked out of the slit. His breath catches in his throat but he still manages, “I suppose.”

“Eren.” Her thin fingers grab hold of his chin, guiding his face up so that he looks at her. Her eyes are so eternal, molten gaze that burns right through him to his soul. “I want you. Just you. No one else,” and she says it all in a whisper, so small he has to close his eyes to focus solely on her voice. “So please.” He feels her lips all over his face, lazy and smooth and delicate before they find his ear and then she's whispering all over: “Make love to me.”

He can't even think straight anymore.

He does exactly as she says.

This time, she guides him back inside her and he enters her painstakingly slow, inching in deeper and deeper as her mouth hangs open and his does too and she feels so incredible around him, he has to close his eyes and drown in her, lips parting in a groan once he bottoms out and he can't hear or feel himself sighing, only her heat around him and her nails searing him when they sink into his skin. His heart's swelling and swelling like it's ready to pop, beating stupidly fast as he studies her face, waiting for her to settle to his girth.

After a moment, Mikasa opens her eyes, gazes down at him, blinks—and they look so new, so pure. She's stunning.

“Are we doing this the right way now?” he manages, alluding to her previous comment back at the counter.

“Definitely,” she smiles around a wince.

“Does it hurt?”

“A bit.”

He waits.

“You can move, Eren.”

And so he does.

He pulls out gradually, almost entirely, keeping his eyes on hers and she's so astounding, his girl, he loves her so much and he knows he'll never stop adoring her. Her dewy lids flutter, silent wing beats of butterflies that take flight once he thrusts his length back into her and she closes her eyes and lets out a cry. He does it again, again, again, and although they've done this many times before in the past it's never been like this, never quite like this. He's so glad he waited and didn't take her on the counter top because soft moans are pouring out of her every time he moves and she's wrapping her limbs securely around him, holding him, breathing with him, fighting to keep her eyes open but they're too much for her so she closes them and gives up and this is ten times better than anything they've ever done before in his life.

He moves slowly, pulling out gently and then sliding back in; each time he grunts or pants into her neck makes her hold him even tighter. She whispers his name over and over again, “Eren, Eren, Eren,” so he closes his eyes and gets lost in her voice, pressing his forehead to hers and feeling her breaths push out of her with every roll of his hips, fanning his lips as he sways back and forth on top of her. They're so close and he holds her even closer, feels their chests rub, her hot sighs on his cheek, his ear, her nails scratching along his back and shoulders until she holds on to his arms, grasps his biceps, looks at him in the eyes and takes in a breath to gasp, “I love you.”

A smile dawns on his face, fusing with her own when he leans down to kiss her. He finds her hands and stretches them above her head, purring against those plush, rosy lips of hers he loves so much, “I know that, silly.”

A shaky sigh is her only answer and he keeps moving, entwining their fingers, pinning her body to the bed with the length of his own as he thrusts and huffs and makes love to her. Her legs are taut and strong around him, pushing him in more and inviting everything he gives. She's got her eyes closed now, she's not looking at him, so he clasps her chin gently and turns her head his way.

“Look at me.” Her lids flicker but she keeps them closed. “Mikasa, look at me.”

Finally she complies, gazing at him with glazed eyes, pupils blown wide with pleasure.

“Finish with me.”

She nods.

“We're gonna finish together, 'kay?”

She nods again, breathless because he's still moving in her so she whispers, “Okay, okay.”

Suddenly, he ruts into her harder. Her arms are still stretched above her head when she arcs her back and cries out, his mouth leaving her neck to kiss her breasts and then he's tonguing at a bud and sucking as she arches even move, her noises filling the room, the sounds of thunder and rain fading to the back of his mind, fervent downpours receding to faint drizzles when he snakes an arm underneath her to lift her hips so he can fuck her better, plunging into her in an angle that transforms her cries into something far more acute with pleasure.

She's still squirming, her hips held in his arm so she can't move them, only hold still and let him drive himself into her as her pleasured moans rasp their way up her throat. Her hands grip the sheets above her head and pull. Arms bend. Elbows raise. Cheeks and lips turn crimson and something rosy and enthralling blooms on her chest as he sees the way her breasts bounce slightly when he rams her harder still.

He's breathless, so breathless, both because of his movements and because she's so beautiful, he can't breathe. He's still moving slow but the way her face disappears as she cranes her neck and grunts makes him lose himself entirely. He braces himself on a tremulous arm, hand gripping the sheets by the curve of her waist, her eyes flitting open to peer down at him and he feels every bit of oxygen inside him finally escape. She keeps fighting to keep them open, to stare at him as he moves, but each time he draws back and snaps back in she's closing her eyes to savor the feeling of him inside her, locks of her hair sticking to her lips, strands dancing upwards when she respires. A groan escapes her every now and then. His name does too.

“Eren...”

It's like he resurrects each time he hears it.

“Ohhh...”

His name, his name.

“Eren.”

Eren, Eren, Eren.

“Ahh. Ahhh. _Eren._ ”

He's practically kneeling as he keeps her lower half suspended, his arm flexed around her and she brings down a hand to feel him, fingers meeting his sweltering skin, running down the side of his neck, tracing his clavicle, the curve of his shoulder, the muscled sweep of his arm.

His eyes have closed, barely cracking open to catch glimpses of her through the blinking veils of his lashes. She's swiping his hair off his forehead, grazing the curve of his ear, pad of her thumb pressed to his lower lip as she cradles one side of his face. The palm of her hand's clammy on his cheek, finger swiping along his mouth and she's feeling each breath he releases, panting just as hard, staring at him even with her eyes closed.

The look on her face is different. There's a reverence present and he can't fathom her thoughts, lacking the mental clarity to question. His mind's clouded and occult, governed by his senses and he doesn't even process what he's doing anymore, unsure of where he summons up the will to suddenly grab her waist and pull out of her.

She'd be surprised if she didn't already know what he was planning, predicting his moves before he flips her over, grips her hips, lifts them up until she's kneeling. Only he would be crazy enough to change positions in the middle of it all, as if they couldn't just start again and do it later. But she hums approvingly when she feels him at her core, because it's always been this way with him, the two of them taking as much as they can form one another, clawing desperately for the utmost fulfillment as if they were making love for the very last time. She feels his hand on her ass, wallows in his breathless voice when pants, “Like this?”

“Like this,” she nods, sighing. “Let's finish like this.”

He clasps her hips and pushes himself back in, and the angle is so different, the sensation entirely new. She's even damper and hotter and impossibly tight and he has to clamp his lip between his teeth to retain some sense of self-control and keep entering her slowly until he bottoms out and they both moan. He's breathing so hard. It takes him a second to ask, “Does it hurt?”

“No, no, no, please, please, just move.”

He squeezes her thighs. “Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_!”

And so he moves.

Stretching her out little by little until it's burning pleasure coursing through them both. He's finding it impossible to keep his eyes open, the air rushing out of his lungs in thick puffs, parting his lips, furrowing his brows as his motions struggle to remain measured, muscles itching with the need to fulfill his every impulse until finally she holds herself up by shaky arms and bucks her hips against his, gasping, “More.”

He's miserable, aching, goosebumps covering his body as raindrops roll down his back and chest and fall from his hair, down his face. It's gotten over his eyes, but they're half-shut anyway when he utters—practically delirious, “More?”

“I want to feel you”—she gasps again when he ruts into her—“more I want more.”

Leaning forward, chest flush against her back, he pins her hands down on the bed, curving his fingers over hers and angling his mouth to talk into her ear. She's shaking. He loves that. She shivers even more when he asks her, “You want me to fuck you harder?”

She nods vigorously.

“You'll have to finish with me.”

“I know, I know.”

“No sooner—”

“Please.”

“—no later.”

“Please, please, Eren shut up.” He smiles at her exasperation, trapping her earlobe between his teeth. “Do me harder  _please_ just shut up and fuck me.”

He bites the back of her shoulder and plunges harder still. She groans, senseless, head wilting, arms trembling and he's pounding over and over and over again from behind, pants mixed with moans mixed with rain mixed with the wet slap their skins as he lifts one of his hands to grab her hair, smoothing it back on her forehead while simultaneously raising her head to see that her eyes are closed, eyebrows furrowed, mouth agape and she's tightening around him more and more.

“You feel so good,” he tells her, tangling his fingers in her hair, sucking on her neck and oh how he wishes her mother could see them right now. She'd literally  _die_. In his mind, it's some form of wicked payback. You call my dead mother a whore? I take your daughter from behind. How's that for poor, filthy, disgusting?

Mikasa's whines are lost in her throat. Breathless, she implores, “More, Eren.”

His teeth graze the curve where her neck meets her shoulder as he starts to pick up speed, slipping the hand that holds her hair down her stomach, reaching past her navel to press two fingers on her clit. He's rubbing small circles and she's so far gone, gasping and practically choking on her sobs before slinking a hand over his, digging her nails into his knuckles and telling him she's close.

“Not yet.” He doesn't stop rubbing her. “Wait for me.”

She bites her lip and nods. She's still whining even with her mouth closed, his fingers working down there and he knows he's only pushing her closer to the edge but she keeps tightening and she feels so fucking good, he can feel himself catching up to her.

“ _Mmmm_...” Her nails scratch the back of his hands harshly enough to draw blood. “Hah—Ah! Eren!”

“Just a bit more.”

She lets go of his hand and he wraps his arm around her waist, going faster, harder, grunting into her neck and she shakes and shakes and shakes until finally her arms collapse under her weight and he lets her fall down on the bed, moans pressed to the sheets and they keep rising in pitch and fervor.

“ _Eren..._ ”

Her knees and legs buckle, pressing them lower to the bed but he holds her rear end up, propping himself on a forearm by her head, his mouth just behind her ear:

“Almost.”

“I'm gonna—”

“Wait.”

Her hands are at a loss of what to do, knuckles turning white from how hard she grips the bed sheets until her cries grow so loud he can't even hear the thunder or the rain or the smack of skin on skin or even his own noises. She's trying not to but she cries out every time he plows into her, slinging her arms behind her to wrap them around his neck, clawing at whatever planes of skin she can get, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling as his hand's reaching down low to—

“EREN!”

A staccato.

“Do it.”

His fingers on her, grinding, and that's it, she lets go, it's the loudest fucking scream he's ever heard come out of her when she shudders and her pleasure tears out of her throat as she comes. She's falling apart below him, scratching up the back of his neck all the way to his scalp and he tries to hold out longer but she's too much, too much, too much, too much. His mind goes blank and he thrusts one, two, three more times before going still and coming inside her, her cries overpowering his and not even thunder claps register in his ears anymore, just her, him, this, the unrelenting bond that ties them together and the blinding burst of white that consumes his eyes.

Her arms cling around his neck and he's about ready to collapse but he keeps thrusting lazily, rubbing idle circles on her to ease out her orgasm as she melts, melts, melts, and finally they both go limp on the bed. Her arms fall from his neck, a hand grasping his wrist as the aftershocks quake through her in small waves that leave her whimpering, Eren's cheek pressed to the back of her shoulder as they both pant and gasp for air. She's sandwiched between him and the bed, and he knows he's squishing her but he can feel her breathing below him and taste the familiar, musky scent of her sweat and there's nothing more necessary, more vital, more breathtaking than her.

After a moment, he pulls out of her, and the second he's left her completely her body slumps on the bed like a slug: face down and arms dead by her sides, her butt poking up slightly and Eren has to scoff, nudge her butt cheek. “Mikasa?” No response. “Are you okay?” A low groan. “Mi—” Laughter. (Only from his part.)

He smooches one of the hollow dimples on the small of her back, apologizing. “I'm sorry. I was too rough.” But she's groaning her answers into the bed, words muffled and undecipherable and he's trying really hard not to chuckle but she's all, “Mmrph ungh mfffburrb,” and he's a tired, sweaty, snickering mess.

He plops down on the bed beside her, brushing her hair behind her ears and turning her head so that she's facing him—her cheek smushed down on the bed, pert lips parted with her tiny pants and he kisses them, swallows her little breaths.

“Mikasa.”

“Mmrph?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Mmrph.”

He laughs.

She does too.

The way her lips stretch as she smiles is astonishing.

They pull him in and he kisses her over and over and over again. Cheek. Temple. Lips. Nose. Until she's whining in defiance when he suggets, “We need a shower.”

“I don't wanna move.”

“Come on.” he presses, kissing his way up to her ear. “Come on, come on, come on, come on.”

She hums, chuckling softly when he's nibbling at the sensitive underside of her ear. “I already ca— Ah! Stop that.”

Apparently, he bit too hard, because she's bolting to turn over and glare at him, furrowing her pretty little brows and he has to bite his lip to stop from smiling because fuck, she makes him so happy he could just burst. He kisses her chin, her eyelashes, grinning when he kisses her forehead and she complains, “Why are you so energetic? Just let me lie here, please.”

“Shower with me then we can lay down all you want.”

The agonized groan she gives makes him smile even brighter, and fuck it all, he'll smile as much as he wants to. He'll smile forever, as long as he's with her.

“Fine,” she retaliates against his wandering lips, clutching his chin to bring it up to her face and menace, “but no funny business, mister.”

“None.”

 

* * *

 

They do some funny business.

By the time they're wobbling their way out of the bathroom and back over to his bed, the storm outside has simmered down as much as their own bodies have, spent and exploited and exhausted. They're drenched all over again, only now, at least,  _clean_. Eren has to fight with Mikasa to get her to wear one of his shirts, rebuffing her objections for wanting to stay naked because she prefers to “be free”.

“But I wanna stay like this,” she insists.

“Nope. You'll catch a cold.”

“Not if we huddle real, real close I won't.”

“It doesn't work like that.”

“But—”

“Shhh.”

He pulls his shirt over her head, waiting patiently for her to finish scowling at him before slipping her arms through the sleeves. “There you go,” he praises, despite the way she sticks her tongue out at him. “See? That wasn't so hard.”

He doesn't expect it when she responds by toppling forward and crashing into him in a violent embrace. Because Mikasa's always possessed an impressive amount of strength, he nearly tumbles back onto the bed behind him; but he manages to straighten, somehow, letting out a small noise of surprise as she stands on her tippy-toes and clasps her arms so tight around his neck he feels as if she's choking him.

“What's this?” he mumbles into her hair, running a hand down the curve of her back, smirking.

“I missed this,” is what she says, holding him even tighter. “I just missed this so much.”

All he can think to do is snort, hold her closer, let her hold her arms around him until her feet give out and he has to tip down to make up for the height difference. She feels so small to him all of a sudden, like some fragile thing he needs to protect. But it's all merely an illusion. If there is one thing Eren knows for sure—if there is one thing Eren absolutely adores about Mikasa—it's that she can always protect herself. He's not a necessity in her life. He's a choice. And for some odd reason, the thought gives him a great measure of comfort.

Eventually, they're laying down on the bed, facing one another, whispering sweet nothings between kisses and it's much like how it was when they were younger, when the sun's reign over the sky was promising and the moon scribbled down the stories they would never get to tell. Stories of meeting in secret, of reciting poems and staring up at the stars, of acquainting each other's minds, each other's bodies, building temples reserved only for the two of them and no one else. He was her doctrine, she was his faith. Their orisons were licks of ice creams stolen from each other's cones on hot summer days, long nights spent laughing with his mother over steaming plates of home-cooked meals, careful minutes spent worshiping every sliver of bare skin, bruises fading out to nothing and replaced by the gleaming traces of his love. Everything was bright, everything was real, everything was wonderful because everything was theirs.

Aging has the tendency to sully a person's spirit, but wasted ashes come together in reverse, resurrecting as embers, burning on like eternal flames because his girl is once again beside him. He can't rip his eyes off her, and she can't rips hers off of him, for they find themselves mirrored in one another, reflected in the exquisite features of each other's faces, in the contours of her body beneath the sheets of his bed, in the scent of his soap on her skin; her natural sweetness seeping through like a rebellious assertion, yet another reminder that she'll never be wholly his. She's hers before she's anyone else's. And he's more than flattered to be fortunate enough to have her with him tonight.

Their faces are hazy in the dim light of the gas lamp. It's night time now, and the storm outside is faint, so quiet, like the remnants of a secret before it wastes away. In a sense, it depicts what they share this very moment. She feels, if anything, immortal in his arms, on his bed, wrapped up like vines around him. But they know, they know, they know that time is inevitable, and that they will, eventually, inevitably, part ways.

Both of them stare up at the ceiling, lying on their backs, when he feels her hand seeking his until it finds him. She laces their fingers together, their breaths matching the muted dribbling of the rain until, finally, one of them speaks.

“Eren.”

“Hm?”

Their fingers are light against each other. Almost absent. Almost distant. Almost scarce.

“What's going to happen to us?”

“I don't know,” and he's very honest, closing his eyes because the last thing he can fathom is the future stretched out before them. A large part of him doesn't even want to think of it. A life without her—especially after tonight—seems unbearable.

How does one learn to live after they've lost everything?

How does one ever really breatheagain?

He can't. He can't do it.

“I don't want to leave,” she whispers, and even though Eren's eyes are closed, he sees the way her chest billows with her words, how her heart beats within its cage, a prisoner to her fervid emotions, the sentiments she feels so profoundly but only ever exposes to him. “I never want to leave this place.”

“Then don't.” He doesn't realize that he's said this, but he doesn't regret it once he does. He did, after all, merely voice it in his honesty. Lies shed off him one by one, until all that lies beside Mikasa is what she deserves: all of him. Raw and unguarded and scathed. Imperfect and broken and bleeding. Alive and scared and sad but oh so content. Alive, alive. He's so alive when he's with her.

“Do you think… your mom would be proud?” Her fingers move with his, titillating his bones through his senses. “Of us? Of who we've both become?”

“I hope so,” is all he can think to say, heaving out a long sigh. “I really do.”

“All I ever wanted, you know, is to be just like her.” He can tell she's smiling by her voice, by the mildness of her tone. And he feels, more than sees, the tenderness in her eyes as she gazes up at the ceiling. “She was so brave, and honest, and kind. Just… the only woman I've ever truly admired. She used to say that raising you on her own was the greatest thing that ever happened to her.” Eren scoffs a tiny laugh, and the sheets rustle quietly as she turns her head to look at him. “But you already knew that, huh?”

“Mhm,” he nods, smiling softly, the image of his mother blazing in his eyes, shrouding his heart, burning in his being. “She told me. Many times.”

There it is again, her smile. His eyes are closed, yes, but he's never had to look at Mikasa to read her expression. He feels her as if she were an extension of himself, another vessel to carry his soul and amble onwards.

“She said she got to mend you,” she continues, her voice so quiet it's like the wind outside, like the rain, like their heartbeats, “build you up. That you're the greatest thing she's ever accomplished. I used to think…. 'Wow. I wish somebody loved me like that.'” She sighs, her fingers curling around his, latching on to them like a promise. “I've had money all my life, and yet I'd never felt more poor.”

Teal-greens unveil to stare up at what feels like the entire sky, but is only the roof above them. They're silent for what feels like an eternity, until he turns his head to look at her, finding that she's already staring at him.

“Hey,” he says, giving her hand a squeeze, “we should just… escape.” Mikasa closes her eyes and shakes her head, frowning. “No, I'm serious. We should run away, Mikasa. We can do it. I know we can.”

“You already made me this offer once, Eren,” she laments, opening her eyes.

“Well, I'm making it again. It's all I want. Really.”

She shakes her head again, planting her eyes on the ceiling. Her brows knit closer together and he knows she's thinking hard, battling with herself, regretting the conversation they are having. She closes her eyes again, and something tells him she's about to start crying, because the wounds are still too fresh to be meddled with, so he assuages them by swiping the back of his finger along the smooth plane of her cheek, his voice a low murmur: “Look at me.”

Surely enough, tears are sizzling in her eyes, cooking them red. And she's the strongest person he's ever known. And she's the best thing that's ever happened to him. And he can't imagine what she must go through with her mother, with the snobby people at her school, yearning to have her nose buried in her books instead of being forced to mingle with the rich and brainless.

Eren smiles at her, pressing the back of his finger to her lips.

“I want to be with you,” he utters, and he thinks he can feel tears stinging his own eyes. She's so overwhelming, so exciting, and she terrifies him in every way but still she's that fuel that keeps him fighting and pushing despite his worst fears.

Tears are beading in her eyes, and because he's always felt her emotions as if they were his, he allows beads of his own to collect at the corner of his eyes as well. They're both sniffling, and smiling at their sniffles, and crying together because they're one in the same. He knows her favorite songs, her favorite books, the specific scenes in every movie that make her laugh or weep or whisper along to the lines she's memorized from them.

And he can't, he can't, he simply can't go on without her. So with his breath—with what feels like his last one—he arranges all of his strength into his words, proclaiming, “I love you. I want you for who you are. I don't care if we're the poorest, richest, smartest, dumbest, weakest people in the entire world. When I'm with you, I feel that I can do anything. I'm invincible. I know exactly where I belong. And that's so important to me, Mikasa. That's the most important thing of all.”

His finger is still on her mouth, feeling her breaths, her life. His voice is hushed, so hushed, but it rings like bells in her ears, he knows it, because tears spill from her eyes and they're so genuine that they make tears spill from his and he's cracking but he fights to keep on going, just to tell her, just to beg.

“So please, baby.” She grins when he calls her that, wiping away his tears with the back of her hand. “Stay with me.”

Stay with me.

Stay with me.

_Stay._

Promises reverberate in the air, rattling their packaged souls within the parcels of their bodies. The rain has abated to a fine drizzle, a barely-there presence that calls and shouts and screams that yes, they exist, they deserve to, and it carries everything that's ever brought them together throughout the course of their brilliant lives—his mother, Armin, Annie, the beach, ice cream cones, bruises, a mother's scorn, princess band-aids, sunsets, weddings, blue french fries, pins worked into raven curls, satin dresses, porcelain skin, the written words the moon dedicates to their youths and the everlasting wealth that comes with being together—palpitating in her sweet angelical voice when Mikasa turns to him.

Buries half of her face in the pillow.

Blinks.

Smiles.

Whispers.

“I will.”

 

* * *

 

_Things I can do to avoid Mikasa:_

_1._ ~~~~ ~~_Avoid her._ ~~ ~~_Cry_ ~~ _._ ~~_You don't_ ~~ _._ _Ask her to marry me._

**—fin—**


End file.
